


Brackett Series:  Catalyst, Distortion, Reflection, Refraction, Undone

by glacis



Category: Homicide: Life on the Streets, The Sentinel, X Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lee Brackett poisons several lives on the way to finding his guide.  No way this could have a happy ending... for him, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brackett Series:  Catalyst, Distortion, Reflection, Refraction, Undone

The Brackett Series:  Catalyst (Sentinel/Homicide - Tim Bayliss/Blair Sandburg/Jim Ellison); Distortion (The Sentinel - Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg, Lee Brackett/Blair Sandburg); Reflection (The Sentinel - Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg, Lee Brackett/Blair Sandburg); Refraction (Homicide: Life on the Streets/The Sentinel/X Files - Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg, Tim Bayliss/Lee Brackett, Fox Mulder/Alex Krycek); Undone (Sentinel/Homicide - Tim Bayliss/Lee Brackett).

 

_Catalyst_

Assassins. Rangers. Victims. Cops. Jim Ellison had a wide range of bed partners, but they all had a few things in common. They never stayed. They always hurt him. And they were all women.

Blair Sandburg stared sightlessly up at the ceiling of his small room, sprawled as comfortably across his bed as a man with three broken ribs and bruises over seventy per cent of his body could sprawl. It had been another close one. Jim had been having some problems with his senses. Again. Because of a woman. Again. This time, instead of spiking or losing them all together, it was like the wires were getting crossed. He'd been tasting scents and feeling sounds. It had been a three week long acid trip that nearly got both of them killed by the time it was all over. Thankfully, Blair knew how to talk a guy through a bad acid trip.

He noticed that Simon had carefully avoided asking him where he'd learned that particular skill. Good thing, too. There were a few things growing up with Naomi, and Naomi's friends, that he didn’t want to have to explain to anyone who hadn't been there.

But he'd gotten them through the crisis. Again. Winging it, flying by the seat of his pants, doing things no one else would even think of doing, and doing them so well no one cared how he knew to do them, only that he did. He'd been punched with a lead pipe, hit by a car and bounced off a wall. But he was alive.

And Jim's senses were finally back on line again. Because, again, the woman involved was now safely stowed away in a maximum security women's prison and would be for the next thirty years.

Blair was sick to his back teeth of Jim and his women.

True, jealousy was a large part of it. He'd known he had it, bad, for his big guy. Known it for a long time. But they'd been partners four years, and he'd yet to see any indication of Ellison AC/DC going on anywhere but in his own fevered imagination. So he consoled himself with the fact that Jim was a touchy feely kind of guy, and hoarded those touches, to take them out in the privacy of his room and weave fantasies of fulfillment, and commitment, and fierce passion around them. Then he hosed himself off and went back to work.

It wasn't working any more.

He'd nearly socked the latest bitch the first time she'd looked at him like he was something the cat coughed up. Then, when Jim didn't listen to him, AGAIN, about the reason for his senses whacking out, he'd nearly socked Jim. When it was all sorted out and the over-riding impulse to comfort and hold nearly sent him into the detective's arms, he would have socked himself if he hadn't already felt like he'd been worked over by a gang of gorillas with baseball bats.

Something had to give. And he had a sinking feeling it was going to be him. Why the hell couldn't Jim figure out that the ONLY time his senses worked right was when he was with Blair??

It really sucked being the emotionally articulate one.

 

The next nine weeks were hell. He tried. God, did he ever try. No doubt every person at the station thought that he and Jim were sleeping together.

Every person except Jim. Of course.

He'd changed aftershave. Started shaving twice a day, so that when Jim reached over and touched him, the silky smooth skin would please his fingertips. Left his hair down, much more often than usual, because he'd seen Jim staring at it, and knew the other man liked it free. Invaded Jim's private space so far he was practically sitting on his lap. Spent every second he was not actually in a class, sleeping, bathing or peeing glued next to Jim's side.

Jim rumbled encouragingly. Touched him constantly. Smiled happily. Contentedly. Obliviously.

Blair was practically walking funny from a near-constant hard-on. God only knew how Jim was keeping from drowning in pheromones. Surely he could smell the arousal. Apparently, it just made him … happy.

It was making Blair nuts.

Enough was enough. He picked his day carefully, a Friday when he knew Jim didn't have to be anywhere, no stake-outs, no real pressing paperwork. NO DATES. No poker game. Blair turned the phone off. Took a deep breath. Winced, and re-adjusted his by now constant erection inside his previously quite comfortable black jeans. Took another, more careful, deep breath, and cornered Jim in the living room.

"Hey, man, can we talk?" Shit. Great way to start. Sounded like Joan Rivers, and as nervous as he was, his voice was about the same pitch. He smiled brightly at his partner.

Jim smiled back. The crystal blue eyes were warm and, as usual, utterly clueless. "Sure, Chief. What's on your mind?"

You. He swallowed. "You." Oh, fuck. His eyes closed of their own accord, and his knees folded up, leaving him serendipitously perched on the edge of the couch. Another inch and he'd've been on his ass at Jim's feet. Not that that would be a bad thing, precisely, but they really did need to talk first.

Mute surprise met his terse answer. A muscle in Jim's jaw jumped once, then a second time, and long lashes lowered over narrowing eyes. Good. Maybe he wasn't as clueless as Blair feared. Another swallow to dampen a suddenly parched throat, and Blair tried again.

"Me. Us." This was certainly articulate. He took a meditative stance, straightening his shoulders and forcing himself to center, then began a third time. "There's something I've been meaning to say to you. I mean, meaning to bring up. About you. About us. I mean, about you and us. You and me. This really sucks," he whispered, having wound himself into a verbal knot.

Jim had gradually grown paler until the only color in his face came from the eyes blazing back at him. "What are you trying to say to me, Sandburg?" The words were terse, but the tone was confused and lost. "Do you want to leave?" It sounded like Jim's throat hurt.

"No way, man!" Blair blurted back, burrowing instinctively along the couch until they were touching from ribcage to knee. "Anything but! No, I don't want to go. I don't ever want to go. I love you, man." It was Blair's turn to freeze. Conversely, Jim seemed to relax.

"Oh." He casually tossed a long arm around Blair's shoulders and gave him a brief, warm hug. "Good. Me, too." He settled back against the cushions and rooted around for the remote. "Want to watch the game? Jags are playing the Lakers tonight. Should be good."

Blair sat there with his mouth hanging open. Was it that easy? Could it ever be that easy? A blaze of happiness raced through him. Taking the remote from Jim's unsuspecting hand, he tossed it over onto the coffee table and climbed into Jim's lap. Wrapping his hands around those brawny shoulders, he breathed, "Yeah. It's gonna be great!" and latched onto Jim's mouth with his own.

Less than a heartbeat later he found himself where he'd nearly been when the conversation began, flat on his butt at Jim's feet. Jim was staring down at him like he'd just grown a second head and shown up on the X Files.

"What the … what … you …" Blair watched in sick fascination as Jim tried three times to say something, finally giving up and pointing down at him. "WHAT?!?" Jim finally managed to yelp.

"Love," Blair answered sensibly. Jim shook his head. Bells were certainly going off, but not the ones Blair had hoped for. These sounded more like alarm bells.

"Friend!" Jim ground out. Blair tilted his head to the side, studying him.

Oh. Shit. "You love me. As a friend." Jim nodded numbly. Blair felt himself start to blush from his toes clear to his hairline. Inside, the blaze that had started when Jim had, he thought, declared himself, fizzled out, replaced by an icy ache that threatened to freeze him from the inside out. He tried to roll over, tried to move, but his arms and legs didn't work. Neither did his eyelids. He couldn't get them to close, was forced to watch the look on his best friend's face as the detective finally got the point of the conversation.

There wasn't any censure there, just disbelief, and rejection. Just repudiation of everything he was, everything he had offered. Dimly, he was aware of a line drawn in the air between them, a line separating what would be from what could be. The line was a wavering demarcation of fire. He'd crossed over it. And he had been burnt.

But if he burned, why did he ache from the cold?

"I'll leave." It was his voice, so he had to have said it, although for the life of him he couldn't remember doing it. Jim reacted violently.

"No!" One large hand wrapped around his wrist, tugged him back up onto the couch. Blair stared down at the long, slender fingers encircling his arm, and forced himself to breathe. "Please. Don't leave."

"I blew it, man. Screwed up big time." The words were whispered, Sentinel-soft, and he knew his Sentinel had heard them by the convulsive tightening of the hand's grip.

"We’re still friends, Chief," Jim whispered back, just loudly enough for his Guide to hear and understand him. "I need you." The fingers loosened, then soothed the reddened skin where they had gripped, patting the wrist gently before withdrawing. Blair stared down at the absence of warmth. Beside him, he felt the cushions shift as Jim levered himself up off the couch.

"I'm going to the station, Sandburg." Blair couldn't quite force himself to look up. He really wanted to curl up into a little ball and disappear, but he had a gut feeling Jim wouldn't let him do that. "Have some work to do."

They both knew that was a lie, but Blair let it pass. Another useful obfuscation that made it possible to get through the day without hurting another. Without coming out and saying, I can't stay here with you. I need you but I don't want you.

Jim paused at the doorway. Blair still stared down at his abandoned hand, lying on the couch beside him. "I'm sorry," he said softly. Blair's head lifted up, finally, and they stared at one another for a long moment. Before Blair could counter with his own apologies, Jim added, "I don't want you to go. Stay. Please?"

Blair responded to the need hidden under the words with a nod, unable to say a word. Jim nodded back, grabbed his coat, and slammed the door shut behind him. Blair watched the knob click shut, then looked numbly around the loft.

He couldn't stay here.

He couldn't leave.

The walls were already closing in on him.

He felt like the biggest fool in the universe. And the universe was condensing rapidly into a black hole that he simply had to escape.

Five minutes later, jacket tossed over his shoulder, he scrambled into his car and headed for the U district.

 

Vacations were supposed to help, not confuse things even more. Tim Bayliss stared at the amber liquid in his glass, shook his head no to the third offer of company in the last half hour, and wondered what the hell he was doing in a bar in Cascade, Washington that he couldn't do in a bar in Baltimore. Glancing up into the mirror behind the bottles, he watched the dancers for a moment.

Young, college kids mainly. Not too crowded, it was early yet for a Friday. Music wasn't too bad, the beer was pretty good. There wasn't a woman in the place. At least not one that was dancing.

They were having fun.

He should be having fun. He'd told his partner, Frank, that he was going to go as far away from Maryland as he could get. Go to the beach. Go hiking in the rain forest. Get his head on straight. Frank was all for that.

He hadn't called Chris Rawls before he left. He had told Laura Ballard. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that Ballard was a woman and Chris was a man. He wasn't sure. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that instead of the beach, he was at a gay bar. If he'd really wanted to go to a gay bar in Baltimore, Chris would have taken him, happily. So what was he doing at a gay bar in Cascade when he wouldn't go to one in Baltimore? Chris made incredible tortoni with crushed almonds on top. Tim was starving. But not necessarily for ice cream.

He'd been hungry for a very long time.

Tired of his bouncing thoughts, tired of chasing himself through circular loops of logic that left him right where he started, he took his glasses off. Pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, he pushed, trying to relieve the pressure, rubbing his hands over his face before wearily putting the glasses back on. He knew he was hungry. Didn't know what he was hungry for.

The scent hit him like a fist under the diaphragm. When he got his breath back, he turned and looked at the man who had moved onto the bar stool next to him. Compact, graceful, shorter than he, but then most people were. Low light gleamed off sable brown curls falling to shoulder length, pooled in deep blue eyes that held shadows Tim recognized. Long fingers wrapped around a beer glass, full lips smiled thanks at the bartender.

Tim's eyes wandered, taking in surprisingly broad shoulders, long arms and legs, nicely full basket under black denims. Up a sturdy chest to a long throat, past that incredible hair to a beautifully angled face. Tip tilted nose, an edible mouth, big eyes with long lashes casting shadows onto pale cheeks. He was fucking gorgeous. Then the man turned toward him, gave him as thorough a going-over as Tim had given the stranger, and smiled, slowly. The breathe he'd found, he lost again. For once in his life, Tim Bayliss forgot every rule he knew and decided to live in the moment.

He'd worry about thinking later. Right now, he was hungry.

 

Blair knew as soon as he walked in the door that he was in the right place. The music was okay, kind of slow, and the crowd was pretty well tied up in itself. But up against the bar … god. Well, not really a god, but close enough to shine a light through the wall of ice that had taken up residence in his chest earlier that evening.

The guy was tall, as tall as Jim if not a little taller, but not nearly as broad. More of a runner, or swimmer, broad shoulders, long, lanky body. Hair the same color as Jim's, but more of it, with much less discipline, falling over his forehead. Wire rimmed glasses framed tired light eyes, and long fingered hands played restlessly with his drink. Something about him screamed 'cop' to Blair, and the irony of it lit another corner of iciness up and flushed it with the beginning of arousal.

If he couldn't have what he wanted, and by the reaction he'd gotten he never would, then he would surely take what he could get.

He eased through the crowd, watching the stranger shrug off a would-be suitor, then take off his glasses to run his hands over his face. He was younger than Blair had originally thought, maybe early thirties, and from the look on his face, he had as much to forget as Blair did. Good. They had something in common.

Propping himself on the stool, he ordered a beer. He could feel the other man's eyes raking over his body, appraising, enjoying. The heat of the gaze strayed to his crotch, settled there for a moment before sweeping over the rest of his body. Okay, cool, something else in common. Lust was good. When there was nothing better on tap.

He swiveled on the stool and smiled up at the other man. "Hey, man. Stranger here?"

A sweet smile met his own. "Yeah. Stand out that much?"

"Nah, just don't remember seeing you here before." He downed half his beer in two graceful swallows, then clinked the edge against the other's. "Want another one?"

The stranger stared at him for a second, then relaxed completely. "Sure. Why not." He paused while the bartender replaced his glass with a full one, then reached out one hand toward Blair. "My name's Tim."

Blair took the hand, a lance of pain going through his gut. So close. And yet so fucking far away. "Blair. Nice to meet you, T--Tim." His tongue caught on the name, and he squeezed the hand he held before letting it go. Tim leaned closer.

"You okay, Blair?" Soft concern made his eyes seem bigger in the dim light of the bar than they had before. Blair found himself leaning forward as well, his face near to touching the other man's.

"Yeah. Just … I know this is sudden, but you want to go someplace more quiet? Just, you know, talk?"

Tim took his wallet out, tossed a ten on the counter and stood up. "I'd like that."

Blair smiled up at his new found friend, and led him out the door to his car. Part of his mind was shrieking at him that he was a total moron, the guy could be Jack the Ripper in cop-drag for all he knew. But the rest of his mind, in near melt-down from weeks of arousal that he now knew would never be doused by the one man he really needed, flipped off the rational part of his brain and headed the car toward the loft.

After all, Jim was at work. One of them might as well enjoy himself.

Underneath the defiance, the icy shell thickened.

They stopped for Chinese food on the way, spicy and hot and full of garlic and deep red peppers, all the dishes Jim couldn't eat any more. They laughed over the fortunes, until Blair flashed on another afternoon laughing at fortunes. Loved by many. Well, wanted, anyway. Loved? Not really. The one he loved had gone after a Hong Kong assassin that particular day. Hastily, he shoved the tiny slip of paper under one of the cartons, and went back to feeding Szechwan shrimp to Tim. They laughed, and joked, and ate, and eventually, when the cartons were cleared, they talked.

Tim was fighting his own issues, an abusive uncle, a poorly remembered childhood that was still scarring him. Questions about his sexuality, his choices, his driving need to simply stop thinking for a little while and have some fun for once in his life. Blair opened up a little about his own demons, a man he loved who couldn't love him back the way he wanted, but still needed Blair to stay in his life. Tim was, indeed, a cop, a detective like Jim, and for a little while they shared horror stories. Not the cases themselves, really, but the wounding that went on underneath the professionalism. Tim spoke of a young girl who had died, who haunted him still, five years later; another case, a hustler who had forced an admission of lust out of him in exchange for an admission of murder. Blair spoke of helplessness, and nightmares, and yellow scarves, and losing too many friends to violence.

Eventually, under the weight of memory and pain that they could do nothing to alleviate, the words died away. They sat, half turned toward one another on the comfortable sofa where Blair had gambled and lost earlier that night. Tim fiddled with the bottle of beer in his hand, fingers picking at the label, wanting, desperately, to move, unsure of exactly what form that movement should take. Blair read it all in the tension in his shoulders, the quick glances shot at him under dark lashes, the sharp musk of arousal, both Tim's and his own.

Knowing that it would turn out much differently this time, wishing with all his heart before he brutally throttled the wish mid-thought, that this could be Jim, Blair reached out and gently took Tim's glasses from his face. Took the bottle from his hands and set it safely on the tabletop. Loosened the strangling tie with two clever fingers, and bit softly at the tender flesh of Tim's throat.

He unleashed a wildcat.

 

Jim Ellison sat at his desk, staring with blind eyes at a screen that had given up its data in favor of a screensaver cat chasing a mouse over its surface quite some time ago. It didn't make any sense. None of it.

Oh, Christ. All of it. Did. He just didn't want to … couldn't bring himself to admit it. He'd known for quite some time that Blair found him attractive. He'd played off that, unconsciously, allowing himself the comfort of physical contact with the younger man that he'd never allowed himself with anyone else. He'd told himself it was just tactile reassurance. Those stupid damned senses of his needed grounding, and Sandburg was there, always, for him to reach out and ground himself.

A mental image of grinding himself in a completely different way against his Guide nearly sent him into a zone out.

It scared the shit out of him. Why? He wasn't a homophobe. Wasn't particularly choosy, either, under the right circumstances. He'd had fuck buddies before, it wasn't nearly as uncommon as the brass would like the public to believe. But he'd never fallen in love with any of them.

The thought stopped him cold.

Yeah, he loved the kid. Told him that. But it wasn't -- couldn't be -- Sandburg had kissed him. Jolted him clear to the soles of his feet. Given him a hard on that wouldn't quit, and shocked the shit out of him, sending him into instinctive withdrawal, so he'd shoved the kid clear off his lap and onto the floor before Blair could figure out exactly how much he'd gotten into that kiss. So why the panic? Why the fear? Okay, get to the brass tacks, why the sheer fucking terror?

Ellison was used to living behind masks, presenting the right one for whomever he was addressing, pulling out the right cover for whatever situation he found himself in. He'd been damned good undercover, until he'd started to lose the boundary between what was him and what was subterfuge. He'd lived a double life his whole life, covering his senses as a kid until he'd finally submerged them completely, because that was the only way to survive in his father's world. Covering the sensitive man inside with the shell of a hard ass, because that's what it took to survive in the Army's world. Fucking in the dark and denying in the light, because that's what it took to survive in the world he lived in. Living in the dark, and fearing the light, because the light showed parts of himself that no one else could ever accept.

Except Blair Sandburg.

Sandburg had taken his crazy senses, his cold attitude, his anger, his fear, and brought him through to the other side so many times the kid was his own personal footbridge to sanity. He'd hidden his attraction because Jim hadn't made any sign of noticing it, until Jim had opened the door. Only to slam it in his best friend's face. I love you, but not that way, Sandburg, and you can never have what your body and your eyes tell me you want, but please don't leave me. Stay here, and suffer, for me.

And the kid --no, the man -- would do it. For him.

He could almost hear the tearing as the barriers gave way inside him. The fear was overwhelmed, washed away in a flood of need, as he finally faced the light and stepped out from behind the mask he'd used even to himself. Oh, yeah, he loved Blair Sandburg all right. With every part of him, from his head to his heart to his cock. Now he just had to go home, and hope like hell he hadn't taken the last spark of hope from his Guide. The need to go to Blair over-rode every logical built-in response he'd had hammered into him in nearly four decades of life, and the primal instinct that called Sentinel to Shaman roared to life. His world was tilted off-axis, totally fucked up, and he'd done it to himself. Now he had to find his mate and put things right.

He didn't remember the drive home, as his need gradually grew until he was operating completely on autopilot. He had no idea what he was going to say when he saw Sandburg, but knowing his partner, he wouldn't have to say much. Blair could read his mind. Even when he himself hadn't an idea in hell what was actually up there in his head.

Rounding the stairwell toward his door, an alien sound stopped him in his tracks. A moan, quiet but intense, and familiar, if not in this particular vocalization. His head tilted, his nose lifted to the air, and he sniffed cautiously.

Sweat. Musk. Semen.

Feet carried him to the door, and he stopped, arms paralyzed, unable to bring his hand to his pocket to take out his keys. Instead, he found himself listening. The moans were breathier, needier, and getting louder. Underneath them, he could make out the slide of hair-roughened skin along skin, the slurping sounds of a wet mouth around dripping flesh, the slight pop of air pressure as the lips' broke their seal and tightened again, the swallowing gurgle of a man suckling at another man.

Without his permission or even deliberate intent, his senses swung on-line with a vengeance. His sight arrowed through the peephole in the door, weaving with hearing and smell to follow the sounds and the scents that had assaulted him in the hallway. His heart froze, then lurched into a gallop at what he saw.

Blair lay on the floor with his head toward the door, arching up into a stranger's mouth. His legs were splayed widely, feet digging into the rug to give himself purchase as he thrust upward, fingers scrabbling at short dark hair on the head slowly raising and lowering itself at his crotch. His nipples were erect, peaking through the swirls of chest hair, wet and slightly swollen from where they had been bitten. Sweat gleamed along his skin, turning it molten in the soft light falling from the lamps by the sofa. His head was thrown back, eyes clenched tightly shut, mouth dropped open to gulp air and sigh out those needy moans.

Jim's eyes were drawn to the junction of mouth and cock, enthralled by the slick glide of hard, red flesh disappearing into the stranger's mouth, stretching the man's lips, sliding past his jaw until his nose was buried in Blair's pubic hair before slowly drawing back out, suckling, working his tongue over Blair's cock the entire time. His partner was writhing under the stranger's touch, whimpering now, close to coming. Jim could see the blood pounding under the skin in the thick vein running from root to crown, could see the stranger's tongue pressing into it, the trail of saliva and pre-ejaculate tying that mouth to Blair's cock, the long fingers weighing and pressing Blair's balls, delving between the strong thighs to disappear under Blair's ass. The sound of skin sliding apart, the hitch in Blair's breathing, the dimpled flex of hip and flank told Jim precisely what the stranger was doing to his partner, and how very much Blair was enjoying it.

A tiny voice was screaming at him to leave. To get out before he saw the final betrayal, saw how little Blair really loved him, to have gone out so quickly and gotten a substitute, how little Jim meant to him. A much louder roar, sounding suspiciously like a pissed off panther, reminded him that it was his own damned fault. He'd demanded the unthinkable, that Blair stay in spite of his love, not because of it, and had made it blindingly clear to Blair that his love was not what Jim wanted or needed. Territoriality and jealousy fought with need and arousal, tearing him between killing this stranger and claiming Blair for his own or admitting that his own rejection had set this whole situation in motion, and leaving Blair until the fire had been tamed and they could discuss this rationally. Caught in the cusp of action and reaction, motionless, in turmoil, a sudden convulsion in the body he was so intently watching caught all his attention and held it captive.

Blair in orgasm was incandescent. Tiny shivers ran through every muscle, causing his body to dance, beads of sweat on glowing skin reflecting lamp light, throwing off sparks of light to dazzle Sentinel sight. His head thrashed from side to side and his spine arched into a perfect bow. His mouth opened, but only a sigh of breath came from it, as if his entire being was concentrated on feeding himself to his lover. It took a moment, but eventually it penetrated the maelstrom of sensory input Jim was lost in, and he recognized the word whispered on that sigh.

His name.

Jim.

One hand was reaching for the knob, his other pulling at his clothing, before he even recognized the primal reaction that one word triggered.

 

Strong hands slid firmly along Blair's torso, calming the quivering muscles, taking him gently down from his climax. He hadn't had sex in so long, between not wanting to jerk off when Jim was around and not being able to find a woman willing to put up with being called a guy's name, that the force of his coming nearly made him black out. Didn't hurt that Tim really knew what he was doing with that mouth of his. A tongue was thoroughly bathing his cock and balls, cleaning up every last drop of fluid. He floated, in a daze, a hidden part of his soul pretending it was Jim holding him like this, caring for him. Loving him.

The hands curved up around his shoulders as the mouth finished its work, and he was drawn into a sitting position. He responded automatically, drawn to the warmth and solidity of the naked body pressing into his own. Some of his natural energy was returning, and with it came acknowledgement of the weeping erection pressing into his thigh. He angled his head toward Tim's throat again, sliding down the tendon there, over his collarbone and down his chest. Wriggling to get himself into a comfortable position, he pushed himself onto his knees and buried his head in Tim's lap. Wrapping a lazy hand gently around the straining cock now directly in front of his face, he opened his mouth and lowered himself onto it, lapping and nibbling at it like a kid with a Popsicle.

Blair's world narrowed to the warmth suffusing his muscles and the taste of hot flesh and salty semen on his tongue. Content to keep his eyes closed and suck languidly, he was unaware when the body under his hands suddenly tensed and stopped moving. He didn't hear the door open, or close. He was equally unaware of the now naked body of his best friend behind him. When large hands clamped over his hips and angled them upward, it was simply one more wonderful sensation in what was turning out to be a damned incredible session of sex. The hands were at the wrong angle, but that didn't make any impression either, even as they were gently but firmly pulling his buttocks apart.

Then the tongue slid into him.

The world tilted. How had Tim gotten his tongue back there? Was he that tall? Before his rational mind could come out of sexually-induced nirvana long enough to make the connection between the hands holding him apart and the hands tangled in his curls, and realize that there were too many hands for the single lover he thought he was with, the tongue began to move, and so did the cock in his mouth.

He moaned around the bulk moving over his tongue, and Tim thrust forward. Concentrating on breathing through his nose, relaxing his throat and not choking to death, he was utterly vulnerable to the sensations attacking his anus. Warm, wet velvet around a living prod was opening him, sinking deep, curling back, sending flash fire to every nerve in his body. His own cock, so recently drained, took an interest in the proceedings, and hardened, straining toward his stomach, pulsing in time with the thrusts down his throat, up his ass, the blood pounding in his head, along his veins, until his entire body contracted in rhythm with the lovers surrounding him.

Gentle hands made hard with need cupped his jaw, his skull, and pulled him up as Tim began to fuck his face in earnest. Blair wrapped his arms around Tim's hips and held on for dear life, as his own hips were canted still further up. His knees were firmly spread, and strong thighs parted them as a bulkier, hotter, slick length prodded at his hole, sinking in firmly, filling him completely. As he was pulled back and firmly seated into the searing heat of another's pelvis, his knees left the floor, and his entire weight rested against the pole buried in him. Gravity and mindless need pushed him backward, and he was entered more deeply than he had ever been before. Hands came around his waist and began to rub his erection, kicking the fire into an inferno.

Something finally clicked, pushing past the fire of arousal eating his mind, and he abruptly realized that he was getting fucked at both ends, which meant that someone else had joined the party. He instinctively began to bolt, which pushed his face completely into Tim's crotch. The pressure on his throat made him back up, shoving him back onto the cock buried inside him, sending him forward again. As the panic gave way to pure sensation, he finally recognized the deep voice murmuring from behind him. Along with the voice, he knew the hands that were working at his own cock, pulling and milking it, knew them as if they were his own.

Jim.

Jim was holding him. Had rimmed him until he was mindless, and was now fucking what little sense he had left clear out of him. The realization made him scream, Yes! God, yes! Only small sounds made it past the bulk of cock now plowing frenziedly into his throat, and the vibrations were the final straw for Tim. With an incoherent groan, he emptied himself down Blair's throat. Instinctively, he swallowed as quickly as he could, the motion milking Tim's orgasm from him. He clamped down everywhere, including his ass, and the sudden wrenching motion triggered Jim's orgasm. As the flow down his throat tapered off, the hands around his cock clenched, pulling him tightly into the cradle of Jim's pelvis. Blair distinctly felt the spasms ripping through Jim's cock as it spilled inside him, and the fire bathing his guts combined with the convulsive tightening of Jim's hands on his cock pulled the second climax of the night from him.

His body felt like it was exploding, filled to overflowing, melting into nothingness. His mind was overloaded, stimuli sending sparks of flame running through his thoughts, sending him reeling into muzzy whiteness. His heart finally broke free, the last of the ice melting in the face of the heat of his lover's claiming. Exhausted, mentally, emotionally and physically, Blair nestled back against Jim, curled into the heat of his body, and decided to sort it all out in the morning. Before he could complete the thought he was soundly asleep.

 

Reality came back to Jim with the ease of pressure as his softened cock slid from Blair's body. His arms were wrapped protectively around his partner, Blair's head snuggled up under his chin. The younger man was snoring softly, resting with complete trust in his Sentinel's grip. The soft rustle of wool and linen caught his attention, and he looked up to see the stranger quietly getting dressed.

He stared at the man, noting the suit, the glasses, the glint of badge before he tucked it away in his jacket pocket. The other man stopped, fully dressed, and smiled gently down at Blair. Jim's arms tightened instinctively.

"I'm glad it worked out for somebody. He really loves you," the man whispered, then headed for the door. Jim heard him stop, knew he was watching them both, then the quiet snick of the latch catching told him that he and his partner were finally alone.

Gathering the lax body of his sleeping lover close, he shifted until he had Blair in a firm grip and carried him upstairs. Settling him into his --no, their bed, he slipped in beside him and gathered the covers up over both of them. Blair muttered something in his sleep, too muffled even for Sentinel hearing to decipher it, then turned and burrowed into Jim's arms without ever waking. Jim buried his face in soft curls, wound himself around his Guide, and let the rhythm of Blair's heartbeat lull him into sleep.

The world wasn't tilted anymore. It was back on its axis; the natural order had been restored. They would figure out the details later. All the important stuff was right there, wrapped up in his arms, sleeping like a baby.

 

Frank Pembleton had been staring at his partner all morning. Tim knew it, and had done his best to avoid mentioning it. If something was bugging the other detective, he'd say something. He wasn't exactly the shy type. And Tim wasn't about to offer anything. Not this time. Finally, Frank brought it up himself.

"You okay, Bayliss? Vacation go okay?" There was an underlying tinge of worry. Tim smiled briefly at him, then looked back at the case file he'd been staring at for the last half hour.

"Yeah, Frank, I'm good. It was fine." End of conversation. The other man gave him one more concerned look, then let it drop.

Tim watched his partner head off into the staff room for coffee. As the dark head disappeared around the corner, he took a deep breath and reached for the phone. He'd never know, not unless he tried. It was answered on the second ring.

"Chris. Uhm, yeah, hi. It's Tim. I was wondering … Would you like to go out?"

 

_Distortion_

Freedom was illusory. Ephemeral. Carried a high price tag. Was worth every drop of blood and every lie he'd told to get it back. He would play their little game for as long as he had to in order to do what he had to do. Then he, and his adjunct, would disappear. He was, after all, a master gamesman.

Just one of the things they had forgotten in their efforts to control him.

Lee Brackett took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and willed the images away. Eighteen months of confinement, experimentation, interrogation, isolation and sensory deprivation. A year and a half of near-hallucinatory madness. In the end, an open door, and an obligation he would honor exactly as long as it suited his needs.

They had no idea what they had created. What they had unleashed.

He twisted the last two wires together, clipped them off, closed the gray metal box and sat back with a small sigh. He was tired, but the adrenaline was beginning to sing along his veins again. The old surge of heat that hit him right before a big op, when his mind and his body would be stretched to their limits, and he would fight hard before coming out on top. Every time. With two exceptions. The first one, an FBI agent who had made the mistake of entrapping him, was long dead. The second, a detective and his partner, still lived. Soon, that would be remedied.

Well, one of them would die, anyway. He had plans for the other.

Leaning forward slightly, he twisted the small knob on the front of the box, shifted to get comfortable in his seat, and stared across at the video screen in front of him. Shapes took form, two men, moving through the three rooms he had wired. Hanging jackets, eating dinner, squabbling over the remote for the television. Chattering from one, attentive nods from the other. The images were crystal clear, the audio equally so, and his enhanced sight and hearing caught even minute details of those he observed. They sat together, ate together, laughed together. His eyes narrowed and one finger tapped unconsciously at the side of his lean jaw as he watched. Listened. Waited. Planned.

Smiled.

 

"Oh, c'mon man, that is **so** unfair!"

Jim laughed silently at the hint of a whine under the expressive voice. Blair could wrap him around his little finger even before they became lovers. Now that they were together, **really** together, it had gotten to be as natural as breathing. Every once in awhile he had to get a little of his own back. Besides, the kid loved it, even if he wouldn't ever admit it until it was tickled out of him. He stared down at the wild hair spread over the pillow, the sturdy naked body writhing under his own, trying unsuccessfully to escape hypersensitive fingers that knew just where to brush to send him into paroxysms of laughter. It was addicting.

"No, Jim, c'mon, let go of my wrists, please, how can I touch you if you're holding me down like this, man? And I really gotta touch you." The whine was being replaced by a darker, huskier plea as Blair rubbed his crotch teasingly against Jim's stomach. The heat and musk rising from his aroused lover overwhelmed him for a moment, and abruptly the tickling stopped and the lovemaking began. Loosening his hold on the strong wrists, he slid his hands the length of Blair's arms, then down his ribcage, firmly enough to sensitize, not lightly enough to tickle. Blair caught the change in mood immediately and whimpered briefly in expectation. All the play-fight eased out of his body, and he began to arch rhythmically up into Jim.

Placing one spread palm directly over Blair's sternum, Jim held his torso steady and slid his other hand down further, slow, steady circles gradually getting smaller and slower as it pressed against his stomach, across his upper thighs, back around to his navel, back down to his groin, always coming close but never quite contacting the heat of Blair's erection. The flesh was straining against him, light, needful brushes against his forearm, his chest, along his jaw as he moved further downward.

"Please, Jim, please, gotta move…" The tortured whisper brought his attention back to Blair's face. It was beautiful in arousal, flushed and sweating, eyes wide and dilated black with lust. Not breaking eye contact, he used the heat as his guide, and dipped his chin to open his mouth, taking the head of Blair's cock in his mouth.

"Oh, god, oh, yeah! More!" The sharp command was at odds with the velvet softness of the quivering crown he was ringing with his lips, goading him on. The hand he'd been holding at Blair's chest swept down now to grasp the base of Blair's cock, squeezing it, holding it steady for his mouth to plunder. His questing tongue traced the edge of the head, the rim of the glans, the small slit now leaking pre-ejaculate over his taste buds. Long fingers wrapped around his head, framing his skull, urging him forward. He refused to be rushed, enjoying the taste, tracking it as it slid down his throat. He varied the pressure by tiny increments, testing the entire surface of the head before allowing more of the shaft to slip into his mouth. Blair was making small appreciative moans now, interspersed with an urgent "yes!" or "more" once in awhile. The noises went directly to Jim's groin, reinforcing his own arousal.

Curling his fingers around Blair's sac now, he pulled the heavy testicles gently in time with the suction he was creating with his mouth. Deeper, then relaxing, deeper still, he rocked until he was swallowing the entire length. The moans were constant, as Blair spread his thighs and dug his heels into the mattress, seeking more purchase to thrust harder into Jim's throat. Bringing both hands into play, he concentrated on his sense of touch, using the variations in heat and the almost imperceptible shudders under the skin to focus his attentions. His hands danced over Blair's perineum and up along the crease between his buttocks, parting them, playing with the shrinking opening, teasing it with one finger tip, then another. Blair was humping frantically now, close to coming, between the fingers working into his anus and the throat massaging his cock.

Jim dialed everything down, then, except his touch, closing his eyes, muting the exciting sounds he was forcing from his lover, not allowing the taste he loved to overpower him and take his control. The earthy scent surrounding him was seeping into his pores, but he dialed that down as well, wanting to give to Blair, wanting his lover to feel everything, trying to make it last. Of course, it didn't -- it couldn't, such intensity being too high to sustain for long.

"Yes, yes, please, now, man, Jim, gotta come, please, let me come, Jim, please, god, please." The sounds were making very little sense by this point. Blair's temperature spiked, his testicles contracted, his anus clenched tightly around the fingers probing it, and he thrust hard, screaming his pleasure wordlessly as he lost himself in orgasm. Jim held him tightly, swallowing as quickly as he could, knowing the contractions of his throat milking around the shaft only made it better for Blair. The effort at control was worth it to see the end result, his Blair, sprawled bonelessly across the sheets, mouth open, panting for breath, lashes feathered across flushed cheeks, shivers running along his frame as he came slowly down from his climax. Jim almost came himself as he let his senses loose, nearly overwhelmed by the experience of being surrounded by his love. One hand reached down, discreetly, to pull at his erection and push himself over the edge.

"No."

He stopped. Blair's eyes were open. They were slightly hazy, but clearer than he would have expected. He was staring at Jim's hand. For all their openness and lack of shame with one another, Jim was still a modest man, and there were some things he had a very hard time doing in front of anyone. Touching himself was one of those things. Blair knew this, of course. Jim was beginning to believe there wasn't a damned thing about himself that Blair **didn't** know.

"What do you need, baby?" he managed to croak. He was blushing, a little. Usually he did himself while Blair was still recovering from orgasm, and had his eyes closed. He felt very … exposed, somehow. Silly, perhaps, but he still had a few modest hang-ups.

"You," Blair answered him. He didn't understand, looking at his Guide for explanation. Blair raised a hand lethargically and waved at Jim's aching erection. "Want to watch you."

The arousal, which had flagged a little at the interruption, surged suddenly, taking Jim by surprise. He'd never been an exhibitionist, he was much too private a man for that, but right now, at this moment, he wanted nothing more than to do this for Blair. He shuddered. "Watch me what?" As if he didn't know. But he needed to hear the words. Needed to hear them in his Guide's voice. As always, Blair caught on almost before Jim had figured it out himself. Settling himself against the rumpled pillows, Blair lowered one hand to his softened genitals and began to play with them, gently stroking his fingertips along the tender flesh. Jim watched, mesmerized.

"Do this." He reached out instinctively toward Blair. His lover laughed softly and caught his hand, redirecting it back toward Jim's own cock. "No, big guy. I want to watch you do yourself."

Jim shifted over onto one side, looking from Blair's slowly growing arousal to his own groin. He wasn't sure he could do this, in the light, under the bright spotlight of Blair's avid stare. Tentatively, he reached down and curved his fist around his cock. He was so hard he ached, but residual embarrassment froze his hand in place. He took a shallow breath, and groaned.

"Unwrap your fingers, Jim," Blair directed, employing the Guide voice that Jim followed instinctively, but with an added depth and darkness that was unique and unfamiliar. He found himself following the instructions without thought, and shuddered again at the intensity of sensation in his cock. "Take two fingers and stroke yourself, yeah, like that," the voice continued, and he felt himself slipping under, his world whiting out into the slick slide of hot skin under his fingertips, the sparking explosions of pleasure arcing through his balls. "Take a deep breath," and he did, the scent of his own arousal weaving around him, interlaced with Blair's scent, distracting him from the threatened zone out. He anchored himself on Blair's voice, dividing his attention between what he was doing to himself and the rich caress of the words along his eardrums.

"Yeah, that's it, just like that. Slide down a little further, uh-huh, that's it, Jim. Open your eyes."

Heavy lids raising, he saw that Blair was mirroring his action. They lay side by side, watching one another. His left leg was held down by the weight of Blair's right crossing over it. His lover was stroking his half-filled cock with one hand, gently twisting each nipple in turn with the other. Jim moaned and reached out to him.

"No. Watch me. Listen to me. Touch yourself." Jim's hands returned obediently to his body. "Just like that, you can do it. That's good." The far corner of Jim's mind that was still functioning recognized the speech pattern as the same Blair used to bring him through sensory tests, but that corner was soon washed away with sensation as his Guide continued to direct him. "One hand under your balls, now, yeah. Lift them, squeeze them, roll them. Um-hmm, just like that. So good. So beautiful. So fucking hot." He was, he was burning up. His other hand roamed restlessly, rubbing at his nipples, up to his throat, as he watched Blair doing the same. He was caught up in a sensory fugue, feeling what he was doing to himself as if it was Blair's hands doing it, feeling the satin skin under his fingertips as if he was touching Blair himself.

"Lift up, now, Jim, yeah. So fucking gorgeous. That's it. Spread your cheeks, yeah, like that. Finger yourself, just the one, uh-huh, yeah. Yeah. Now take your cock in your fist. That's it, Jim, pump yourself. Harder. Harder. Give yourself more." They were moving together now, as Blair thrust his own hand into his ass, matching Jim's movements perfectly. The bulk stretching his anus combined with his rapid milking movements on his cock were meshing with the sight of Blair doing the same, the scent of their combined arousal, until he couldn't tell where one of them began and the other ended. "Yeah, another finger, that's good. Fuck yourself, Jim, let me watch you fuck yourself. Deeper. So fucking sexy. Yeah, push harder. Watch me, Jim. Scream for me, lover. C'mon, man, do it, do it!" He was close, so close. He shoved as hard as he could back on his hand, his wrist knocking his testicles to the side, as he hunched over and pumped into his fist. Blair was curled toward him now, their knees rubbing one another, a single point of contact between them. Then Blair shifted, bent over, pumping hard at his own cock. Keeping just enough distance between them that he didn't actually touch Jim, he angled his head so that his face was mere inches from Jim's frantically pumping fist.

"Don't touch the head, Jim. Jerk your cock, harder, now, yeah. Fuck yourself. Harder. Come for me, now, Jim. Do it!" The moist breath flagellated the head of his cock like a whiplash. He shoved his fingers as far up inside as he could reach, squeezing his cock hard, convulsing as he came, screaming Blair's name.

When he came back to himself, Blair was straddling him, shaking, pumping the last of his orgasm across Jim's belly. Semen ran down his cheeks and across his mouth, dripping from his chin where he'd caught the force of Jim's climax. He arched, one final time, and crumpled across Jim, who caught him and settled him close to his side. Unthinking, Jim stretched over and began to lap up his spendings from Blair's cheek. His lover relaxed against him and raised his face to be cleaned, dabbling in the come spread across Jim's stomach, offering a fingertipful for Jim to lick clean. The mingled taste of their semen warmed him.

Blair slid sleepily down his body, pillowing his head against Jim's torso, lazily licking at the liquid there. Reveling in the warm, silky weight, breathing in deeply to imprint the scent even more firmly in his soul, Jim smiled hazily down at his love and drifted off to sleep.

 

Two weeks later, the Guide knicked his finger while slicing a bagel for breakfast. In the bedroom, the Sentinel unconsciously stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked away the sting. The hidden watcher sat up straight, peering intently at the screen.

Three months and a few interesting sensory exercises after that, the Sentinel cut himself shaving. In the living room, the Guide abruptly dropped his backpack and rubbed at the sharp pain along his jaw. Forgetting it as quickly as it happened, unimportant as he believed it to be, he shrugged the pack over his shoulder and went on his way to the University. Thoughtful eyes watched the figure bounce out of view of the hidden camera, and wove a plan.

 

It really had been ridiculously easy. Watching them, listening to them, discovering the depth of their bond, and the elements of its foundation. Trust, he could work on, eventually. Need, that he had. Intellect, well, he certainly had Ellison beaten in that respect. Intimacy, between them, would not be a chore. The pieces fell together, and he knew just how he could revenge himself upon the Sentinel, and claim the Guide for his own.

 

"Let's go, Chief." Jim grabbed up his jacket and tossed Blair's to him. "We got a tip on the Wylie case. Sneakers comes through again."

"And this time I don’t even have to go home in my sock feet," Blair grumbled behind him. He grinned to himself.

Climbing into the truck and setting course for an old house in one of the most rural areas of the county, Jim kept most of his concentration on his driving and the rest on Blair. His partner was rattling about some new exhibit that was opening at the Rainier University Museum, something about ancient warriors and societal protectors. Unbeknownst the Blair, Jim had already purchased the tickets, and was waiting for dinner to spring them on him. There were times when Jim knew Blair didn't think the detective paid any attention to him. What the younger man hadn't quite figured out was that Jim couldn't help but pay attention, and while he might not show it very often, his world revolved around his Guide.

Wheeling into the empty lot that served as the front drive for the decrepit building, he pulled to a stop. As they approached the front door, he gestured for Blair to get behind him. Listening hard, concentrating on cutting out the extraneous noises, he heard nothing suspicious. Just one heartbeat, a little rapid, not out of line for a snitch giving information on one of the major importers of drugs in the Pacific Northwest. He didn't smell any gun oil, couldn't see anything unusual. Stepping into the darkened house, eyes automatically adjusting, he didn't recognize the significance of the straps crossing the dark blond hair until it was too late.

His gun fell from rapidly numbing fingers as his eyes began to close. He recognized Blair's familiar weight as the smaller man fell against him from behind, already unconscious, sliding down his back. As the darkness closed in, narrowing his field of vision to a pinprick, enhanced sight flared once more. The still figure turned, staring down at them.

He knew those eyes.

 

He couldn't tell how much time had passed since they'd been taken, but he knew it was quite awhile. Jim twisted his hands against the metal chains cuffing him to the straight-backed chair he was restrained in, staring through the dim light in the small room to check out his partner's condition. Blair was restrained as well, with padded manacles at his feet and ankles, and a soft looking gag over his mouth. The other man wasn't strapped to a chair, as he was, but was curled up on a mat on the floor. As he watched, trying to work his jaws free of the material gagging him, drowsy indigo eyes opened. They swept the room hazily before settling on him, a worried look chasing the last of the confusion away. He tried to project as much reassurance as he could through his own look, but had a feeling he was failing miserably.

Before he could get any further than discovering the cuffs had no give to them, the door creaked open and Lee Brackett stepped into the room. Jim saw Blair's instinctive flinch before looking up to meet his enemy's eyes.

"Hello, Detective Ellison," he said in a deceptively friendly manner. Jim stared at him as if he was an insect. The charming smile widened. Turning to Blair, he tilted his head to one side and stared at the student for a very long time. There was something predatory in his stance that instantly put Jim on guard. "And Mister Sandburg. You're looking … well."

Yeah, definitely something going on. Before Jim could begin to sort it out, Brackett leaned down and hoisted Blair over his shoulder in a fireman's hold. Jim instinctively tried to get up, stop him, protect his Guide, but it was a useless effort. The chains held him fast. Sandburg was trying to squirm, but the residual effects of the gas were making his movements uncoordinated, and Brackett controlled him easily. For a moment, the cold eyes met Jim's, and he read an odd sort of triumph in their depths. Then the door swung shut behind them.

Staring at the blank surface of the door, he concentrated on listening, trying to track their movements with his hearing, but he'd been anticipated. A white noise generator coupled with a high, piercing whine similar to a dog whistle blanketed everything, and quickly made his head ache. Shaking off the effects the best he could, Jim bent all his efforts on loosening the cuffs enough to try to get free, rocking in the chair at the same time, hoping to break the frame and loosen the chains that way. Not nearly enough time had passed for him to do any good at either before the door opened again, and Brackett stepped back into the room. There was no sign of Blair.

"It's not going to do you any good, Jim," Brackett stated quietly, moving to stand directly in front of him. The first punch caught him by surprise, slamming his head back, as the blood began to flow from the cut along his cheekbone. "You can't escape." The next was a body blow, stealing his wind, and he distinctly heard a rib break. "You're going to die here." One surprisingly strong hand wrapped around his chin, forcing his head up to meet Brackett's gaze. "But not quite yet."

"Wha--what do you want?" His tongue felt like it was wrapped in cotton.

"You, dead. Sandburg, with me." The smile accompanying the words was solid ice, with a slightly mad edge to it that caused Jim's skin to crawl.

"Why?" Keep him talking. He was feeling a little more alert, and if he could buy enough time, he might find a way to get out of this mess and rescue Blair.

"Your death? You didn't play the game, my friend, not the way it was supposed to go." The hand gentled on his chin, slid down, wrapped around him throat, held him firmly. "The Agency has their own method of dealing with rogues. Not pleasant. Not at all pleasant." The pressure on his trachea increased for a moment, then eased. "I found out a few other things. That's where your little lover comes in" He tensed under Brackett's hand, unable to still the reaction. His captor nodded. "Oh, yes, I know any number of things about the two of you. That's why you're not dead yet. I need to form a connection with him, bind him to me, before I break the connection he has with you. And I can only do that if you're still alive, until he is mine. Then, you'll die." The hand squeezed once, briefly, then let go, and Brackett walked behind him. "Until then, you can think about it." From somewhere behind his head, he heard the suction of a plunger depressing into a syringe. He shied away, but didn't get very far. "Oh, and feel free to eavesdrop, if you can," the hatefully cheerful voice concluded, before the prick of the needle at the side of his neck made the world go fuzzy again.

Pulling his concentration in with all the fierce control he could muster, desperate to save both himself and his partner, he called to mind everything Blair had taught him about controlling his body's reaction to chemicals. The residual effects of the first dosing and the strength of the second combined to defeat him, and the world whited out into nothingness.

 

Jack Kelso sat in his office at the University, knowing he should be concerned with sorting his notes for the afternoon's lecture on comparative regional governing structures in the post-Soviet republics. But something was nagging at him. Staring unseeingly at the neatly printed papers scattered over his desk, he rubbed a weary hand across the back of his neck and gave a deep sigh. Whatever it was had to be important, or it wouldn't be bothering him so much. Closing his eyes, he sorted through the few unusual events that might be causing the breakdown in his concentration.

It wasn't his classes. None of his students were causing any real problems, and the staff left him pretty much alone, with the exception of his friends. None of them were in trouble, that he knew about. It wasn't the doctor's report. He'd known the further damage from the sniper's bullet was going to cause some problems with his spine. He had a suspicion Blair was going to feel unreasonably guilty about that, so he was trying to keep quiet about it. No reason for the kid to take on any more burdens, especially when they weren't his to bear. It wasn't the latest update he'd gotten from his sources within the Agency. Not all that much was going on right at the moment, and most of that was routine. A counterinsurgency op being closed down, another opening up, an Emily sting going down on a foreign diplomat, an assassination or two, a test subject being released, to be picked up again as needed, a prisoner exchange in the middle east that might lead to some additional information on the bioweapons front … his eyes popped open.

Something about the test subject.

Prisoner release.

Exchange.

For the benefit of the agency.

Swearing softly under his breath, he reached for his keyboard. Tapping in an urgent, coded email, he clicked the send button and stared at the screen.

They couldn't have.

Oh, hell, of course they could have. Would have. Might have.

A beep from his machine caught his attention, and he quickly opened the message and decoded it. Staring at the words for a split second, he cursed again, more loudly this time.

They had.

Kelso grabbed his desk phone and pressed a preprogrammed button. The telephone in Blair Sandburg's office rang eight times before he settled the handset back on the machine. A quick call to the department secretary confirmed that he had not been seen since the previous day. He reached for his cell phone, dialed a number from memory. Three rings later an answering machine clicked on. Not at the loft, either. Punching the disconnect button, he typed with his left hand, calling up the desired number from his computer address book, and dialed it into the phone with his right.

"Cascade Police Department, Major Crimes Division."

"I need to speak with Detective Ellison please." His fingers squeezed and released around the phone, nervous energy needing an outlet somewhere. An eternity on hold later, a raspy bass voice came over the line.

"This is Captain Banks. Detective Ellison is not at his desk. May I help you?"

"Captain Banks, this is Jack Kelso." The affirmative noise from the other end of the line reassured him that the man did remember him. "Have you heard from either Jim or Blair today?"

"No," Banks replied slowly. "They didn't come in today. I called but got an out of range signal from Jim's cell. They went out to contact a source yesterday afternoon. It's not unusual for Jim to be incommunicado for a little while when he's in the middle of an investigation. Why?"

"I have reason to believe that Jim and Blair are in extreme danger." He didn't try to hide the urgency in his voice. Blair was a good friend, and he was in deep trouble.

"From whom, Mr. Kelso?" There was a cautious blend of urgency and disbelief in the deep voice.

"Lee Brackett has been released from custody." The bellow through the receiver made him wince, and he hurried on, cutting across the questions spilling into his ear. "We don't have a lot of time, Captain. I know Brackett. He's a nasty son of a bitch, and he's got a grudge going here."

Less than an hour later, a TA was covering his lecture, and he was ensconced in Simon Banks' office, running down every lead he could possibly think up.

 

Lying on a rush mat on a cold cement floor brought back way too many bad memories for Blair Sandburg. The last time he'd been immobilized like this, David Lash was busily creating an altar of his personal effects and preparing to drug him, torment him and drown him. He was trussed up again, drugged again, scared half out of his mind again, and fully expecting to be tormented. The only similarity his frenzied thoughts couldn’t come up with was the drowning part. Brackett would probably just break his neck. It was not a comforting thought.

Caught up in his memories and his fears, he didn't see Brackett until the man knelt beside him, running one hands gently through his tangled curls. He started and tried to wriggle away, but Brackett's other hand hooked firmly into the chain running around his waist stopped his attempt at flight. He stared up through the tendrils of hair falling into his face, eyes fixed on Brackett, waiting to see what his next move would be. The hand moved up to touch his cheek, then down his side to his ribs, gently soothing the cramp he had there. He lay rigid, not trusting this gentle touch.

The hand in his hair tugged back, forcing his head up so that he was staring fully into Brackett's face. The normally cold eyes were surprisingly warm, staring at him with what looked strangely like approval.

"I've been watching you." A shiver ran along Blair's spine at the soft voice. "I didn't fully understand why the entire concept of Sentinels fascinated me so, until the last two years. Do you know what happened to me, Blair? I hope you don't mind my calling you Blair. Mr. Sandburg is so formal, and we won't be at all formal with one another."

Blair stared up at him, wondering just when Brackett had completely lost his marbles. The other man took his enforced silence for consent and his trapped look as interest, as if he wasn't still firmly gagged and held fast.

"Sensory deprivation and solitary confinement are tried and true methods of breaking a recalcitrant man. They did something else in my case." The fingers on his side spread, slowly stroking his ribs through his shirt. "They triggered the development of something in me that had lain latent for my entire life. I can hear water dripping a mile away now. I can hear someone's heart beating in another building. I can see in the dark as if it were broad daylight."

As the recitation continued, Blair's body stiffened under Brackett's hands. No. No fucking way. There was no fucking way on earth Lee Brackett was a Sentinel.

"I can smell fear." Suddenly he moved, bending closer, his face inches from Blair's. "I can feel your skin through your clothes."

His breath started rasping through his nose as a full blown panic attack hit. Blair's muscles started to shake, and the world began to gray out as he hyperventilated. Dimly, he was aware of an ease of constriction, as the chains around him were unlocked and unwound. Then he was gathered up against a warm, hard body, long arms wrapped comfortingly around him.

The wrong arms. The wrong body.

Screaming inside his mind, he clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut and fought off the panic. When he had his breathing under as much control as he could maintain, he scrambled as quickly as he could from the enveloping embrace. Ricocheting into a corner of the room, his enemy between himself and the door, he held his hands out warningly.

"Stay the fuck away from me, man!" he howled as Brackett advanced on him.

"I'm a Sentinel, Blair-"

"NO FUCKING WAY!"

"-and I need a Guide." Brackett stopped a few feet in front of him, and smiled down at him. "You."

Blair feinted right and broke left, sprinting for the door. Brackett caught him before he got three feet. He swung back, kicked, squirmed, snapped at the hands holding him as if he was a wild animal caught in a trap. Brackett simply held him, tightly, wrapping himself around Blair's back and holding him against his chest until the exhausted young man subsided.

"I know you have a bond with Ellison." Blair jerked reflexively at his lover's name, but wasn't able to break free. "It's as genetic for you to bond with a Sentinel as it is for a Sentinel to bond with you. You're a Guide. Sentinel and Guide are matched sets." The soft voice continued inexorably in his ear, pounding into his head. "It's built into you. You have no choice but to bond, but it doesn't have to be with him. It can be with me."

"**No!** I love Jim! I hate you!! You're a goddamned maniac!" He was panting with exertion now, still twisting in Brackett's grip.

"It will be good, Blair," the voice tried to soothe him. "I'll make it good for you. Pretty soon you won't even remember him. You'll be mine. My Guide."

Pure enraged frustration poured off Sandburg. "Go fuck yourself!!"

"No," this time there was a tinge of amusement to the tone. "I'll be too busy fucking you."

"Not on your **life**!" Blair screamed, lunging against the arm around his abdomen.

"How about on Ellison's?" came the calm response. Blair froze. "Cooperate with me. Come to me willingly. If you do, I'll let him go. If you don't, I'll kill him."

"Bullshit." He wasn't buying that at all. "You're going to kill him anyway."

"Maybe." There was a short pause, then, "Maybe not. Perhaps it's just a matter of time. If you fight me, I'll kill him immediately. Right now. If you make love with me, I won't. Fair exchange?"

Blair chewed it over, trembling with anger and fatigue as the options, limited as they were, tumbled in his thoughts. He knew he couldn't be responsible for Jim's death. He had to do whatever he could to make sure it didn't happen. His gut clenched, but he did his best to ignore the sickness in the pit of his stomach. Jim needed time. His partner wasn't dead, he was fighting to find a way to save them both. Blair didn't know how he knew that, but he did. His job was to buy as much time as he could and give Jim the chance to do his thing. Coming to the only conclusion he could reach, he forced himself to relax as much as possible against Brackett's hold.

"Have sex," he finally whispered, Sentinel-soft.

"What do you mean, have sex?"

Shit. He heard that. Blair swallowed a moan of sheer disbelief, and said more clearly, "Have sex. We will not make love. But I will have sex with you."

Brackett nuzzled against the back of his neck, burying his face in the heavy curls there. He could feel the smile on the bastard's face.

"Semantics."

That's where you are so wrong, he thought, but kept his mouth shut. Brackett turned him slowly, keeping careful watch on him. Blair went with the movement obediently, waiting for an opening that never came. The next hour was a waking nightmare.

Brackett undressed him gently, caressing every inch of his skin as it was uncovered. He tried to remain passive. It didn't work. Those long fingers seemed to know him, moving unerringly to every erogenous zone he had. By the time he was naked, he was erect, aching, and in shock. His mind was protesting every move, but his body betrayed him, caving in to the pleasure.

"Undress me." He didn't want to, but his fingers reached out, and his hands peeled the black shirt and jeans from the muscular body in front of him. Similar in height to Jim, the resemblance ended there. Brackett was as furry as he himself was, toned body covered with a light golden down, thickening and curling into a golden brown tangle on his chest, arrowing to a dark curly thatch surrounding a long, thick cock. He was already hard, pre-cum leaking from the tip, bobbing gently to burn against Blair's stomach as they stood close.

Backing Blair up to the cushion on the floor, Brackett proceeded to demonstrate his own control. With his hands, mouth, tongue and teeth, he brought Blair to the edge of climax again and again. Blair was moaning, shaking his head back and forth in denial, but his body responded of its own accord to the wicked touches making him shiver. Fingers plucked at his skin, teeth nipped at his neck, bit at his nipples, lips worked at his mouth, his throat, his wrists, his fingers, his abdomen, the tender skin behind his knees, the outline of his ankles, the curve of his back, the fullness of his ass. He gave up resisting and tried another tack, trying to come as quickly as possible, wanting to end the torment, the pleasure his mind was shrieking that he couldn't be feeling.

Brackett didn't allow him the release. One hand slipped down between his thighs to pull firmly at his balls, stopping his orgasm. He cried out, a broken plea, and soothing kisses rained over his face, closing his eyes, following his cheekbones to the corner of his mouth, lingering at the mole to the left of his bottom lip, then sliding in and pressing against his tongue, invading him. The touches lightened then, until his body quieted and the over-riding need to come calmed. Then they began again, building up, tightening his nerves like steel springs, then calming him again.

He forgot who he was, where he was, what was happening, who was doing this to him. All that remained in the charred ashes of his mind was the need for it all to be over, for the pressure to finally ease, for him to finally be allowed to come. When he was convinced that he would not survive, that he couldn't take another trip up that crest without falling over or dying of unresolved need, he was turned onto his stomach. His hips were canted up into the air, his head pillowed on his crossed arms. From what sounded like a great distance he heard a voice begging for release, almost inhuman cries of arousal and desire.

Fingers like talons split his ass, and warm air blew over him as a rough wetness bathed his asshole. He was pushing back against it, needing to be filled, needing this to end. As if answering his inarticulate pleas, a snub-nosed bludgeon probed at his hole, stretching him past the point of pain. Caught as he was in the insanity of finely wrought desperation, the pain was another facet of the pleasure, and he let loose a keening wail as he fought to impale himself. Strong hands caught at his hips, slowing and controlling his descent. When he was finally fully seated, one hand slipped around the sweating waist to curl possessively around his angry cock, pushing backward along the wet muscle, countering the hard thrusts into his ass.

It seemed to go on forever, and he could make out words, his own words, running together, tripping over his lips. No, yes, god, please, stop, stop, no, fuck, please, fuck me, let me come, god, no. And under them, a drumbeat, an unceasing rhythm of guilt and disbelief and anguish. Jim. Jim. Jim, jim, jim, jim, jim, jim. Where are you? Help me? Please? Make it stop? Make **him** stop? Let him stop. Let him come. Please, please, let me come.

Then he felt the change, as Brackett, with deliberate intent, altered the angle of his thrusts. Pushing against the small gland hidden deeply, turning Blair's responses against him fully in the final act, he set a deep, irresistible rhythm, both hands working at Blair's crotch, fucking him thoroughly, riding him hard and stroking him just as hard. Blair's mind caught fire, and the drums beat through his head, through his chest, until he was the beat, and nothing existed but the fire. He spasmed, ass clenching tightly around Brackett's cock, pulling it in, humping up against him to maximize the sensation of the orgasm. He heard a triumphant shout behind him as Brackett arched deeply against him, pumping into his as he also came. He felt the weight blanketing his back, the sticky blood-warm mess against his groin and stomach, the scraping against his knees, the cold of the concrete seeping up through the cushion they lay on into the side of his face as Brackett collapsed on top of him. There was something salty and wet on his cheek, trickling into his mouth. Tears. He closed his eyes tightly, and whispered a heartbroken plea.

"Jim."

 

He didn't know how long the white-out lasted. He came to himself to find every muscle in his body clenched, fighting the effects of the drugs. Brackett had taken his Sentinel abilities into account when concocting the drug, but Sandburg had done a lot of work with him in the last two years, and he was able to at least hold back the effects, even if he couldn't completely counter them. Something was beating at the back of his brain, panicked, frightened. A part of it was his own emotional reaction to the situation, combined with his fear of what that nutcase would do to his partner. But part of it was outside himself, and some protective instinct warned him that something very traumatic was happening to his Guide. Ignoring the pain from his broken rib as best he could, he began to rock in the chair until he finally overbalanced it. The crash as it landed winded him, and the pain nearly caused him to black out, but he fought it back with everything he had.

Blair was in trouble. He'd find him and help him if it killed him.

The crash did have one result he'd been hoping for. The frame of the chair had cracked. Shifting and heaving his not inconsiderable bulk as much as he could, he eventually worked one of the side supports free from the back of the chair. That loosened the chain enough to slip one hand free. From there it was simply a matter of time and a high pain tolerance level, accompanied with dialing down on the pain as much as he could, to drag himself out of the remains of the chair and escape the small room. His legs were still almost entirely numb, and he could feel the drug saturating his system, threatening to overcome his controls. Pushing forward on sheer instinct, he managed to stagger along the corridor outside the room, following his Guide's pained voice.

His mind wasn't working right. It couldn't be. Because he couldn't possibly be hearing what he thought he was hearing. As he entered a relatively large room, he stumbled over an obstacle on the floor and went down hard. The jarring pain wrenched a little of the control from him, and he felt his legs go completely numb as the effects of the drug made themselves known. Rolling onto his side, fighting to stay conscious, his eyes opened on a scene from his worst nightmare.

Blair was on his knees, stark naked, being fucked by Lee Brackett. He was crying out, moaning, leaning into his arms, hiding his face, and humping back hard into the reaming the bastard was giving him. Brackett's hands were busy at Blair's crotch, working him to climax, which came as Jim was watching. Blair came first, writhing and groaning. Jim could see the convulsions rippling through his body, could smell the familiar scent of semen and sweat and musk. Brackett came immediately afterward, yelling, wrapping himself around Jim's lover, claiming him. Jim's mind went blank as his senses overloaded on what he could not be seeing, and he started to shut down. Instinctively, he listened for his Guide's voice.

"Jim."

A cry for help.

The details began to fill in again, bringing his vision on line. His gaze sharpened, taking in the tracks of tears along the side of his partner's face, the tightly clenched jaw, the white-knuckled fists. Determination swept through him, and he tried to respond, needing to get Blair the hell away from there, end this, kill Brackett.

His legs didn't move.

His lapse in attention had cost him dearly, losing too much ground to the drug still in his system. He collapsed back onto the floor, heart racing, coppery taste of blood in his mouth where he'd bitten his lip. From beneath him, he heard a slight scrape, felt the bulk of soft material that was Sandburg's jacket. In the pocket, the small square shape of the cell phone. Twisting behind himself, he snagged it with one hand and rolled over as far as he could go into the shadows. If luck, who had been mighty fucking fickle lately, decided to be on his side, Brackett would be exhausted enough that he wouldn't hear Jim in the far corner of the room. God knew Blair wore him out often enough, put him in a haze that left all his senses swimming. Maybe it worked with Brackett as well. Jim could only hope.

Dialing from memory and touch, not taking his eyes off the two men crumpled together across the room, Jim muttered under his breath as the phone rang. "C'mon, Simon, be there, pick up the fucking phone--"

"Banks!" The harsh bark nearly broke his eardrum. He shook off the shock and spoke clearly, frantically, and quickly.

"It's Jim, Simon. Trace this call. Brackett has Sandburg and me. He's going to kill us." Well, him, certainly, he wasn't sure about Blair. But living with whatever Brackett had planned for the kid would undoubtedly be worse. He quickly described the surroundings, knowing they had been moved from where they had originally been trapped, but unsure how far.

Within four minutes they had a trace and a location. Help was on the way. Jim had never been so happy to hear from back-up in his life. He focussed on getting the feeling back in his legs, and watched his partner being gathered up in a close hug by a man Jim would give his eye teeth to kill.

 

Lee Brackett was submerged in pure unadulterated satiation. All he heard was the steady thumping of the heart beneath his head, thundering through the broad back he was pillowed on. All he could see was the clear white skin stretched across the shoulder under his cheek, all he could smell was the earthy spice of the man he had just fucked so completely. The survival instincts bred into his bones forced him to reach for his pants and shoes, uncurling himself from Blair just long enough to dress himself, and to wrap his new lover in his own jeans and torn shirt. Then he settled back down onto the mat, pulling Blair into his arms, burying his face in the fragrant curve of his neck.

The bonding had begun. He could feel the links forming as they'd made love, as their bodies had reacted to one another. Oh, his Guide had fought him. Of course he had. Loyalty was one of the traits, along with curiosity and passion, that made him who he was. But that loyalty would shift, given time and no alternative. He had a place they could go, just the two of them. They would stay there until the connection was completely forged, until the part of Blair Sandburg that was bound to Jim Ellison was subjugated to the majority of the Guide, who needed the Sentinel. He would tie Blair to him with everything he had, would seduce him and pleasure him until he had no other needs, and had surrendered to the inevitable. Then, with Blair beside him to Guide him, he would utilize these newfound abilities to the utmost. With Ellison dead and Blair with him, nothing could stop him.

He felt the tension finally begin to drain out of the compact body he was cradling close, and allowed himself to relax a little at last. It was going to work. He wouldn't need his contingency plan after all, because it was actually going to work. He smiled against the soft skin of Blair's neck and nuzzled closer.

 

Blair's mind was in serious denial. His body was exhausted, the drugs and the sex, the adrenaline, anger and fear, all combining to wipe him completely out. But his mind was hyperactive, jumping from one scenario to another, all centered around escape, several including the violent death of the man currently cuddling him close.

The man who had caused him to betray his partner. His lover. His Sentinel. His best friend.

He felt filthy. Ashamed, not just of what had happened, but at his own participation in it. The rational part of his mind argued that he had been coerced, that it had been rape as surely as if Brackett had held a gun to his head and forced him. But the guilt lurked there, too, and ate at him. He was a loser. A hopeless, stupid, slut of a loser. No, he thought fiercely, a victim, god damn it.

The lassitude in his body and the well used ache in his hindquarters, the strained throat from screaming for more all mocked him. He had hated it, sure he had, that was why he was yelling for Brackett to fuck him, right? Suuure. His mind might have been all pure and restrained, but his body had caught like wildfire when the other man had touched him.

He wanted to puke. Or cry. Or both. Dying sounded real promising, too.

Except that Jim was out there. And he had to get to him. He couldn't let … what he had done … be for nothing. He had to save Jim. Forcing himself to relax, he waited, concentrating completely on Brackett's reaction. Finally, the other man did what he'd been hoping he would do, and dropped his guard enough to loosen his hold on Blair's arms.

Taking a deep, calming, centering breath, Blair jack-knifed into Brackett, kneeing him as hard as he could in the groin while swinging his fist up in a clubbing motion toward Brackett's face. It was a damned good attempt.

It failed.

The knee was just barely deflected by a hard thigh twisting Brackett out of the way. The fist impacted, but the evasive maneuver changed the angle of the punch, and it slid along the other man's cheek instead of catching him directly in the nose. Blair scrabbled desperately to escape, but only managed to get a few feet before Brackett tackled him. Writhing in his hold, cursing in as many different dialects as his subconscious could throw out, it was a few minutes before he heard what Brackett was saying. When he did hear it, he wished he hadn't.

"You should have cooperated like I told you to, Blair. I see now that it's going to take something more final to make you understand. You're mine now. Ellison is dead. I'm going to have to kill him, now, right now. As long as he's alive you won't give up, I see that now. I thought you might be smarter than this, Blair, but I guess you're just too caught up in--"

"Oh, god, please, don't kill him," Blair broke in, turning as far as he could in order to make eye contact. "Please. I'll cooperate, man, I swear, I'll do whatever you want, just please, please don't kill him-"

Whatever reply Brackett might have made was lost as the outer door suddenly burst open, shattering on the hinges. Five black suited men boiled into the room, kevlar coating their chests, black caps and jackets proclaiming them Cascade's finest. Brackett swung around immediately, bringing Blair up in front of him as a human shield. The tall man in the lead of the group steadied his weapon on the rogue agent and barked at him.

"Don't be a fool, Brackett. The house is surrounded. You're not getting out of here. Let Sandburg go, and give yourself up!"

Blair beamed at Simon, opened his mouth to say something, anything, and closed it again at the touch of sharp steel against his windpipe.

"I don't think so, Banks," Brackett replied calmly. Then he backed out of the room through the side door, keeping Blair between himself and the drawn weapons at all times. As Blair stumbled along in the strong grip, a sound at the far corner of the room drew his attention. Flicking a glance out of the corner of his eye, concentrating on keeping his balance so he didn't trip and cut his own throat on Brackett's knife, he saw a bulky shadow in the corner next to the hall door.

Jim.

Oh, but that sucked. Big time. How long had he been there? What had he **seen**? His heart rate tripled at the thought that his betrayal had actually been witnessed by his partner, and his stomach turned over. Before he could react any further, Brackett dragged him backward through a door, then pushed Blair ahead of him down a steep, rickety staircase. It was pitch dark, and Blair only kept himself from falling by grabbing hold of the thin railing.

When they reached the base of the stairs, the door above flew open, and a shot was fired down the stairwell, barely missing Brackett, and winging Blair. He yelped in pain as the bullet drew a shallow furrow along the top of his shoulder before embedding itself in the wall. Even without Sentinel hearing he could make out Simon's words as he growled at the over-enthusiastic cop who'd nearly taken out the hostage trying for the criminal.

He quickly lost track of direction in the dark as Brackett pulled him along behind, but it didn't matter. He knew they were in some sort of tunnel, outside the house now, didn't know where. He had to slow Brackett down, had to stop him, couldn't allow Brackett to take him with him wherever the hell he was going. Blair dug his feet into the ground, clutched at any object going by, anything he could do to slow their flight. It was working, too, he could hear the cops following them, closing in.

Brackett could hear it too. Biting off a curse, he grabbed Blair by the hair and pulled him close. He whispered something, it sounded like 'won't see you hurt' but Blair couldn't tell, then a hot mouth closed over his, plundering him thoroughly. Blair did the only thing he could do, since his hands were caught between them and he was too close to kick the bastard.

He bit him. Hard.

Brackett retaliated with a swift clip of the handle of the knife to the side of Blair's skull. There was a ringing pain, a swinging moment of vertigo, then nothing at all.

 

It was an overnight stay in the hospital for both partners, one to flush the last of the drugs from his system, the other to watch for concussion. Simon debriefed them separately, wondering at Blair's resistance to Jim's insistence at seeing him. When Jim finally got enough sensation back into his legs to move under his own steam, he grabbed his IV pole, belted his robe around him, and trundled over to sit beside Blair's bedside. The nurse was not happy. The doctor was even less happy. Simon was confused, Jim was determined, and Blair was off in a little world of his own, too sunk in depression to pay any attention to the minuet being staged around him.

Jim wasn't his best with words, anyway, and when Blair went nonverbal on him, Jim didn't have any idea how to get his partner to talk to him. It was unique in his experience with his lover. Blair normally talked the hind leg off a mule, and even when they made love, Blair was the talker, not he.

Then again, these weren't exactly normal circumstances.

Blair had been hurt any number of times since entering Jim's life. But this was a different kind of pain. This was self blame, and self castigation. Shame, and anger, and a lot of other things Jim wasn't completely sure about. All of it completely silent.

Not knowing what else to do, he simply sat, quietly, watching the downcast eyes, the pale face. Blair wouldn't look at him, instead staring down at his fingers, twisting in the edge of the sheet. Finally, Jim leaned against the side of the bed, captured the restless hand, and twined his fingers with Blair's. He dropped a kiss on their clasped hands, laid his head next where they lay on the bed, and closed his eyes.

"I love you, Blair." He didn't let go as the fingers flinched and tried to pull away from him. He just held a little tighter, brought them up to his cheek, and gradually fell asleep.

Blair still wasn't talking the next morning, signing the discharge papers then sitting beside Jim in mute agony all the way home. By the time they reached the loft, Jim was at the end of his tether. He knew he couldn't get mad, couldn't let the fear riding him blow his temper, because that was the last thing Blair could deal with right then. But he had to do something.

Hanging their jackets up and turning back to ask Blair if he wanted an early lunch, he wasn't surprised to find the room empty. He was surprised, though, to hear water running. Blair had taken a shower at the hospital, both the previous night and this morning. This was weird, even for his unconventional partner.

Or maybe not.

Focusing his eyes through the small crack along the side of the door where Blair hadn't shut it completely in his haste to get under the water, Jim watched the young man. Blair was washing thoroughly, almost obsessively, all along his chest, his arms, his stomach and his genitals. Even from here Jim could see how rapidly the skin was turning red from the harsh scrubbing. It hit him with the force of a fist to the gut.

Blair thought it was his fault. Felt dirty.

Well, hell. That wasn't right. And he couldn't allow it to continue.

Without a second thought, Jim stripped down and dropped his clothes in the hall, consigning house rules to hell for the moment. Slipping into the steamy room, he called out softly, not wanting to startle his partner, with all the kid had been through the last couple days.

"Blair? Baby, it's just me."

His partner started violently, even with the warning, and turned to face him. Finally. What he saw in those wide dark eyes nearly broke Jim's heart. He stretched his hands out to cradle Blair to him, stopping cold when he saw the way the other man flinched from him. Moderating his approach, he reached out with a single hand, gently running his fingers along Blair's arm. Goosebumps rose along the path of his touch. Caught up in watching the reaction of his lover's skin to his light touch, it took him a moment to realize that Blair was muttering something.

"I'm so sorry, Jim, I tried, I mean, I couldn't … he was … I had to … you were …"

Talking things out had never been Jim's strong suit. So he fell back on what he knew best, and let his actions speak for him. Determined to wipe away every memory of Lee Brackett's touch, he set about replacing it with his own. He didn't draw it out, didn't tease at all. They needed this, both of them, a reconnection between them to strengthen that which had been ripped apart by Brackett's revenge.

"Don't let him win, baby," Jim managed, wrapping his arms around Blair and drawing him close. He began to rain kisses all over Blair's face and throat, carding his fingers through the long curls to pull him into better position to taste him. "None of this was your fault." He suckled the side of Blair's throat, coaxing a moan from deep within his chest. Strong hands slid up Jim's side to anchor themselves at his shoulders, and Jim slid his own hands down, cupping Blair's buttocks, palming and kneading them. Blair shuddered, once, and Jim leaned back a little, staring down at his face.

"I feel filthy, Jim," he admitted, staring up with confusion and pain clouding his eyes. "Had to do what he said, man. Needed to give you time. But he pushed every button I have, even though I tried so hard not to turn on. I fought it, Jim, but he got me anyway." His voice broke at the end, and he tried to draw away. Jim held on tighter, holding him against his chest, resting his cheek atop Blair's head.

"You're human, Blair. After a certain point, it doesn't matter who's doing what, if the right places are touched, you're going to respond. Doesn't mean you wanted it. Doesn't mean you failed, or that it's your fault. You did everything you could, and you did it to save my life. I heard you begging him, Chief."

Another shudder ripped through the sturdy frame in his arms, and he heard an incoherent denial against his chest. He ran a hand soothingly over the tensed shoulders, maneuvering Blair so that the hot water beat against his spine, hoping to relax the tight muscles.

"Begging him not to kill me. Telling him you'd do whatever he wanted to save me. You fought him every way you could. And you won." Blair stilled completely, and he smiled into the curls. "You won, because you and I are here, together, and he's gone, and I've got you. Don't give that victory back to him, Chief. Don't let him take you away from me." His voice dropped to a whisper, and he touched one hand under Blair's chin, easing back to get enough space between them to lean down and drop a kiss on full, trembling lips. "Please."

The mouth under his opened, suddenly, voraciously. Jim would have crowed with triumph if he'd had the air, but his partner was too busy sucking it all out of him for him to be able to spare any. As it was, he dove into the kiss with as much need as his love, and only broke the contact when he started to get light headed. Something in what he'd said must have struck a chord, because Blair began to touch him, caressing him, rubbing at his back and hips, kissing everywhere he could reach. There was a hint of desperation there, but he damped down the concern he felt, knowing that with time and distance it would ease. Until then, Jim reassured him the only way he could, by kissing him back just as thoroughly as he was being kissed.

Working one hand between their bodies, Jim found Blair's hard length and began to stroke him, a firm, loving touch that had them both at the brink in moments. Before he could give into the temptation and fall over the edge, Blair pulled away. He forced his eyes open and looked at him with concern, just in time to see the curly head dip down as Blair went to his knees. Then that hot mouth opened over his cock and sucked it in, and the unexpectedly aggressive move made his muscles melt.

Leaning one arm against the wall of the shower, he managed to turn them just enough so that his back protected Blair from getting sprayed in the face with water. Blair was working at him with a will, one hand rolling Jim's balls from side to side while the other pulled at his own cock. The sight of Blair swallowing him whole nearly short circuited Jim's brain. Very soon, too soon, he felt the tension running from his toes and his scalp, meeting in a fireball in his groin. The universe contracted into the steady suction drawing the life from him, the tiny lashing of wet strands of hair against his groin and thighs, the scent of Blair's semen as he came filling Jim's head and stealing his mind away.

Cold water streaming down over his butt and legs brought him back to reality. Shivering, he reached down and hooked unsteady hands under Blair's arms, drawing him up into a shaky embrace. Pulling him from the shower, he flipped off the water and grabbed a towel. His lover came back to life enough to help him dry them both, then they stumbled together up the stairs and tumbled into bed.

Lying together, with Blair's head pillowed on his chest, Jim let his hands drift down until they cupped the rounded buttocks that fit them so perfectly. He felt Blair smile into his chest.

"Tomorrow is another day, big guy." The contentment in the sleepy voice made his heart trip, then double up beats to catch up. It was going to be okay. It had to be.

"Yeah, Scarlett," he teased gently. "And when it's here, this," he squeezed gently, and Blair wriggled delightedly if somewhat groggily against him, "is mine."

"Always," the deep voice slurred, then dropped into a tiny snore. Jim smiled into the darkness. Blair was his, and he was Blair's. Forever.

 

Less than six blocks away, the fugitive stopped packing long enough to stare at the quiet image on the screen. Leaving the set-up in place for possible future use, he slung the small pack over his shoulder and turned to shut off the equipment prior to leaving. A softly spoken word caught his attention.

Always?

A long time.

He had the time. And he could wait.

Forever, if need be.

 

_Reflection_

It had been a damned hard six months. Jim Ellison stared through the hospital window, enhanced sight not seeing a thing beyond the streaky glass, all his attention centered on the room behind him. The machines were blinking, humming and beeping. The intravenous tube dripped steadily. The cotton sheets rustled with every breath the young man lying between them took.

The heart beat just like it was supposed to, strong and sure and calm.

He'd come too close to losing Sandburg this time. An instinct strong enough to rip his head apart was screaming at him to find Alex Barnes and shred her into little bloody pieces. With his teeth.

A stronger instinct wouldn't let him leave his Guide's side until he knew, absolutely **knew**, that it was going to be all right. That he was going to live.

And return home, where he belonged.

If there really was a god, anyway, that's what should happen. Ellison clenched his fists against the cold glass, and found himself praying.

Maybe somebody was listening. Someone besides himself.

 

In a small, very well insulated hut twenty miles south of Allakaket, Alaska, a man sat bolt upright out of a sound sleep. His eyes widened, and he had the Glock in his hand, cocked and ready, before he had his eyes completely open. Every self protective instinct he possessed, and they were legion, shrieked warning.

Narrowed, fully alert eyes scanned the room. Nothing. He flicked the safety back on automatically. Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

If not with himself, then … where? Who? What the hell had given him a nightmare so bad he'd woken up?

Lee Brackett didn't suffer from nightmares. In order for one's subconscious to bother one, one had to actually possess both a moral compass and a sense of guilt. He'd never suffered from either.

But once, for a short time, he'd had something better. He'd had a Guide.

Who was in deep trouble.

Stupid damned cop. He had respect for Detective Ellison, almost as much respect as disdain. The man was hopeless at protecting the Guide. From the tenor of his dreams, Ellison had fallen down on the job again.

Well, he was getting tired of snow, anyway. It had been over a year, it was time to go back to the jungle that was the city. Time to return to his Guide, and settle this ridiculous rivalry for good. Time to take out Ellison.

Time to protect the Guide.

 

Everything was falling apart. Alex huddled in a corner of the diner, warming constantly chilled hands against the thick ceramic cup holding yet another strong cup of coffee she didn't dare drink. Caffeine was playing hell with her senses.

**Everything** was playing hell with her senses.

She was seeing things that weren't there, things out of the corner of her eyes that disappeared as soon as she turned to look at them. Her skin was clammy, all the time, no matter how many layers of clothing she wrapped around herself. Everything tasted like chalk, except every once in awhile when her taste buds felt like they'd been coated with napalm. She couldn't smell anything, then all the sudden her sinuses would explode and she'd lose everything _except_ her sense of smell, and it would overwhelm her. But the noises were the worst.

Something was growling at her. Constantly, a low raspy threatening growl. At the base of her skull, making her head vibrate. She tried to do what Blair had taught her, dialing it down … but every time she brought his voice to mind, the growl would escalate into a bone-shaking howl, and she'd find herself curled up in a little ball, arms thrown over her head, tears dripping down her face.

It was coming from within her. It scared the hell out of her.

She tried to ignore it all, as much as she could when it felt like she was losing her mind, and concentrate on business. Her Cascade contact had bugged out on her, and she was hauling around a canister of toxic nerve gas and an empty checkbook. Two months on the run had made her nervous about the first and tired of the second. Hopefully, the meet today would take care of both those problems.

She'd worry about the growling later.

The door swung open and a man walked into the dining room. First reactions rippled through her … cute, nice body, coldest eyes I've ever seen, including my own … want to kill him. Her lips were drawn back in a snarl that startled herself. Where had that come from? Judging by the stiffening in that fine body, the man was feeling the same reaction. The familiarity shook her to the core.

Great. She finally managed to find a buyer … and he turned out to be a Sentinel. How the hell many of them were there? She'd thought she was the only one, until she'd met Ellison. Now they were coming out of the woodwork. He stopped at the edge of her table.

"Ms. Alexander?"

With an effort, she stifled the growl and forced the snarl into a semblance of a welcoming smile. He had the pseudonym right. She nodded at the opposite chair. He looked around the dining room, pinned a smile on his face that would have been convincing if not for the absolute lack of warmth in his dark eyes, and gestured toward the sidewalk outside the window.

"Let's take a walk." She opened her mouth to protest, and he shook his head. "Humor me, Ms. Alexander. I'm … claustrophobic."

Right. And she was a seven foot NBA player with a billion dollar contract. Oh, well, if he made a move at least she'd be able to run. And he needed her to find the gas canister … so she should be safe enough.

"It's a beautiful day," she lied, disregarding the gloomy gray mist and the intermittent rain, ducking past him out through the door.

She felt his eyes on her, and it made the hair on her arms prickle. The growling started again, and this time she couldn't block it out.

He'd been seeing the panther a lot. The first time it showed up was in Blair's hospital room, winding with delicate precision between the heart monitor and the IV pole. It had stopped at the edge of the bed, placed one big paw on the sheet an inch from Sandburg's shoulder, and stared into the unconscious face. Its whiskers had quivered, and it had looked over at him, staring at him as if to tell him that this was his fault, that the Guide wouldn't be fighting for his life if the Sentinel had been watching over him.

Not that he needed an imaginary cat to tell him that.

It turned up at the station, a couple days later. Crouched on top his desk, should have made a hell of a mess with his paperwork, but it was all in his head, of course, so it hadn't. Or maybe not quite _all_ in his head. The cat had looked pissed, and worried, lashing its tail, ears flat against its skull, low rumbly growl coming out of it. He'd taken one look at it, grabbed his jacket and headed to the hospital.

Sandburg was having a seizure. It had been close, too damned close, and he'd stayed there all afternoon, through the night and into the next day, when the doctors finally pronounced the crisis past. The panther'd been there, then, too, in the room, crouched at the foot of the bed, staring at Sandburg. Whining.

Nobody heard it but Ellison, of course. Nobody saw it. Although Blair had opened his eyes for the first time since they'd fished him out of the fountain, and he hadn't looked at the docs. Hadn't looked at Jim. Hadn't looked at the nurses. Had looked at the foot of his bed, and his eyes smiled, and he went back to sleep.

So maybe somebody else _had_ seen it.

Didn't really matter. What mattered was that after much too long away his partner was finally coming home in the morning. Jim had worked like a madman putting everything back as much like it had been as possible. He hadn't let anyone help him, disregarding offers from everyone from Simon to Connor. The compulsion was strong in him to make a safe place for his partner, to bring Sandburg back, wrap him up, apologize to him, make love to him, and try to patch all the cracks in their combined life that he had put there to begin with.

It took a lot of hours laying on his back tracing lines in the ceiling before he finally got to sleep, triple and quadruple checking the clock to make sure he'd set the alarm, didn't want to be late picking up Blair from the hospital. Didn't want to be late when he was trying so hard to make amends.

He didn't know it when he slipped into sleep, but he did recognize the jungle when he got there.

The foundation of the temple was crumbling, with vines and moss clinging to the tumbled stones. The altar had shifted, was lying on its side, one corner broken off. The clearing before it was ragged, the foliage beginning to take back its territory.

The panther was there, but it was ignoring him. It crouched beside a wounded wolf, and Jim recognized the blue-eyed animal he'd shot the last time he was in the spirit plane. He moved forward instinctively, then froze. Something else was there.

Undergrowth broke and scattered as a heavy body moved through it, dragging something in its mouth. He squinted and peered harder, not quite believing what he was seeing. A cougar, tawny and golden in the half light, blood streaming from claw and tooth marks in its coat, was dragging the corpse of a spotted jaguar through the brush. The jaguar's throat had been ripped out, its coat was shredded, and its eyes were staring sightlessly directly at Jim.

Blue eyes.

Barnes' eyes.

The panther shifted, hovering protectively over the wolf, who whimpered and lay still. The cougar hauled the jaguar's body to within a few feet of the pair, then threw it down at their feet. Oddly enough, Jim had the strong impression that the cougar was offering its kill to the wolf, that the panther was merely a bystander. Then the cougar threw its head back, bared blood-streaked fangs, and howled a challenge at the panther. The wolf stirred, trying to put itself between the two cats, and the howl was cut off abruptly. The panther whined, nuzzling at the wolf, trying to make it lie back down. The cougar growled, then coughed, once, gently, before turning to go back into the underbrush. At the edge of the clearing, it turned, glared at the panther, coughed again at the wolf, and finally glanced at Jim.

Dark eyes.

He knew those dark eyes.

Before he could figure out the puzzle of dark eyes in a golden face, the alarm shrilled.

 

He didn't think he was ever going to be warm again. His memory was a little hazy; the last clear sight in his mind's eye was a lovely, insane, immoral bitch pointing a gun at him. Then a short walk, something about freedom, a massive pain in his head … and a whole lot of cold water.

The forest was cold. Mist hung in the air, and there were icicles hanging off the leaves on the trees. It was the Rain Forest gone medieval, and the only thing that was missing was the Norse God. Then warmth stole across his lips, down his throat. It only thawed his lungs, didn't make it as far as his heart.

He'd been betrayer and betrayed. Too concentrated on protecting both his new research subject and his lover / partner to see what he was doing. In the end, they'd both turned on him. One tried to kill him.

The other may as well have.

Only it wasn't the end. If it had been the end, he wouldn't be wrapped in scratchy cotton with a tube stuck in his nose and another in his hand, having to pee so bad he could taste it and not able to make a sound because his throat felt like it was stuffed with old newspapers. He was out of the water, out of immediate danger, still out of the loft, and in deep shit, from what little he could remember. It made his head hurt to think, so he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

He dreamed, but he didn't remember the dreams. He didn't hear himself whimper, didn't notice the restless movements that prompted the doctors to increase his pain medication. Didn't feel the tears the few times they escaped his closed eyes, and didn't know that a warm hand brushed across his face to wipe them away.

A week passed, then two. Gradually he spent more time awake than asleep, and eventually the medical profession officially passed him as free to go home. Jim had stepped up and declared that he, Blair, would return to the loft -- home, he'd called it. Sandburg wasn't so sure.

Hadn't looked much like home the last time he'd seen it.

 

She was expecting the attack, at a level somewhere so deep she didn't even know it was there. But her muscles were tensed, and she turned under the grasping hands right before they made contact. It wasn't fast enough, far enough, strong enough … simply wasn't enough. A part of her brain was in denial -- why would he kill her before he had the gas? Her soul answered, growling muted to a strained whine. It wasn't the gas. It never had been.

She tried to scream as the arm circled her neck and the hand came up along the side of her head, tried to kick. Punch. Bite. Claw. Nails connected, but there was not enough force behind them to do much damage. There was a howling scream in her head, coming from her? Him? Them? Then pain flashed through her spine, and her eyes widened. Her struggles stilled. She didn't feel the slash of the blade as it marked her flesh. There was darkness.

There was a jungle.

She was trapped in the temple.

She couldn't breathe.

Bright, angry eyes stared at her through the leaves she could see through the tiny hole above her head.

"Help me?" A whisper. The growl came back to her. The stones closed in. She flexed one paw against the cold stone wall, and watched helplessly as the final stone was set in her prison.

In the darkness, behind the stone, she licked at the blood staining her fur, and she began to scream.

 

Blair didn't say much when Jim came to pick him up. His partner looked like shit, bags under his eyes, fine lines bracketing his mouth, a barely perceptible tremor in the strong arms that held the requisite wheelchair for his escape from medical confinement.

Blair noticed.

A little of the ice deep inside his chest cracked, and started to melt.

Jim practically lifted him into the cab of the truck, and Blair shooed him away irritably. "I may look like an invalid, Jim, but I'm not. I can buckle my own seatbelt." He half expected a comeback to his snappishness, but the other man simply nodded and walked away to the driver's side. Great. Silent treatment. If there was any way in the world he thought he could carry it off, **he'd** be the one giving **Jim** the silent treatment. But he knew himself better than that.

He did manage to keep his mouth shut all the way home. Jim didn't seem to have any trouble at all doing the same, clutching the steering wheel, staring out at the road as if his sight was a laser weapon and he was clearing a minefield with it. By the time they got back to the loft, Blair was exhausted.

He half expected a bare floor and bare walls when Jim opened the door. Instead, it looked … normal. Cluttered to some extent, with a mixture of his stuff and Jim's stuff sitting side by side just like it had for the last few years, fitting as they had fit. Had.

His eyes started to burn, and he blinked furiously. It couldn't be that easy. It _wasn't_ going to be that easy. **He** wasn't that easy. Blair turned automatically toward the stairs, to go up to their bed, then stopped in his tracks. He wasn't sure any more if it _was_ their bed. He turned partway, staring over his shoulder at Jim, standing motionless in the doorway.

His partner was suffering. Something inside Blair twisted, and broke open, and he shuddered. Part of it was history, part was genetics -- he was a Guide, and his Sentinel was in pain. He was a scientist, and his subject was suffering. He was a lover, and the one he loved was hurting. And he was a man, whose best friend looked like he had just _lost_ his best friend.

One hand came up on its own and extended itself toward Jim. Blair looked down at the hand, the arm, shaking in the distance between them, then up at his partner. Jim crossed the floor in a blink, and their fingers wound together. They clenched with desperate strength, drawing from one another, reconnecting.

The words could wait.

The hold was close enough.

A wave of dizziness passed through Blair and he swayed on his feet. Immediately Jim's arm came around his waist, and he leaned gratefully into the solid length of his Sentinel. "I'm wiped, big guy. Can we thrash through this later?" With a soft, "Sure, Chief," Jim gathered him close and headed up the stairs with him. Blair clutched at Jim's belt, concentrated on moving his feet, and sank into bed as soon as they made it to the top. He was vaguely aware of warm hands moving over his body, tugging off his clothes, settling a quilt over him … and the heavy purring weight of the big cat settling alongside him, before he drifted off into healing sleep.

 

By the end of the week, Blair was pushing Jim out the door to get him to go back to work. His partner had gone into hyperdrive Blessed Protector mode and it was making Blair nuts. True, they hadn't actually gotten around to talking about what had happened with Alex -- he'd tried, twice, and Jim had gotten that 'deer caught in the headlights' look and immediately started cleaning the loft. Hard to discuss deep emotions at the top of one's lungs over the roar of the vacuum and the dishwasher. So he'd let it rest. They had time.

But Jim was showing his remorse in other ways, or at least that was the only explanation Blair could find for his bizarre behavior. He was … hovering. Mother henning. Practically chewing Blair's food for him. Barely allowing anyone at all, even Simon, to come over and visit. It was almost as though he was building some sort of tall brick wall around Blair, protecting him from every breeze that blew by, from every raindrop.

It was ridiculous.

He'd even taking to sniffing the air, nearly zoning out trying to look everywhere at once. He was pacing, four or five times around the perimeter of the loft, first only at bedtime, then more often, until it was practically once an hour. If he'd had a tail it would have been twitching. If Blair had been completely well, and not sleeping eighteen hours out of every day, he'd have sat on the Sentinel and not let him up until the other man admitted that he was being paranoid and offered some kind of explanation for his weird behavior.

Or maybe just sat on him, until they'd **finally** make love again, after which Jim would be too tired to even think about checking the locks for the ninety seventh time.

As it was, they'd cuddled, yeah, and done some light necking on the couch. But a combination of what he saw as Jim's guilt and his own residual resentment, not to mention the fact that he fell asleep at the drop of a hat, were making it tough to even get to first base, much less horizontal and fully engaged. He shrugged, stared down under the railing at Jim pacing the living room again, and sighed. Later. When he was feeling better. And Jim was not so far into his cleaning / guarding / nanny mode.

The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts, and he cocked one ear to listen in. Sounded like Simon, calling Jim in. Cool. Maybe he could get a nice long nap in without the sound of an overzealous Sentinel pacing underneath him. He listened to the end of the one-sided conversation, then the click of the handset being placed in the cradle, followed by Jim's light tread on the stairs.

"Go for it, Jim. I'll be fine. I'm just going to sleep," he ordered gently, before Ellison could open his mouth. A silent look, an aborted gesture; he read the concern there and nodded. "I'll be okay."

"Need any tea? Some soup?"

Blair had to grin. "No, Mom." Jim didn't smile back, and Blair sighed again. He loved the guy, but there were times when he found him impossible.

"Cell phone's on the stand. Battery's charged. Call me if you need **anything**."

This time it was Blair's turn to nod tiredly. With a small shooing motion, he burrowed back under the quilt and closed his eyes. Jim took the hint and headed back down the stairs. Blair smiled to himself in the darkness under the covers. Jim was really freaked by nearly losing him. Good. Blair had been pretty freaked himself over nearly losing Jim. Maybe now they could clear the air and start over.

He looked forward to Jim coming home that night.

 

His approach had to be different, this time. His planning was meticulous, as always, but the Guide was too weak to subject to the extremes of sensation he'd felt the last time. Stress must be minimized, until the healing was complete. Then the bonding could begin. Isolation, complete removal and total care, followed only when the Guide was healthy again with the challenge to the other Sentinel. Ellison would die, eventually. But first, the Guide had to be cared for.

And for that, the detective had to be distracted, and Blair Sandburg had to be removed while the distraction was still in place.

He'd taken vengeance on the fool who had damaged the Guide. Guides were rare, and precious, and this particular one would be his. Too bad the bitch hadn't taken Ellison down when she'd had the chance -- leaving the way clear for him to walk right in. But this was the next best thing. She'd broken the first rule, after all, one of the very few rules he actually followed. Protect the Guide.

Which was precisely what he was going to do.

 

Captain Simon Banks stared at what used to be Alex Barnes and manfully repressed the strong urge to lose his breakfast in the nearby bushes. A uniform and one of his detectives already had. Whoever'd done her had done her with a will. He breathed shallowly through his mouth, trying not to smell it, then looked up as Jim Ellison ducked under the crime scene tape. There was a closed-off look to his face, and his nostrils were pinched. Simon could understand the feeling.

"What do we have, Captain?" the detective asked, then froze. His eyes were fixed on what remained of Barnes' face. He started to sway, and Simon reached out a hand to steady him.

"You okay, Jim?" He didn't look like he was. He nodded without pulling his eyes away from the corpse, and Simon continued. "Hell of a mess. M.E. hasn't given the exact cause of death yet, probably gonna take awhile."

"To find all the pieces," Brown said sourly from beside the photographer. He had a faintly green tinge to his skin. "Looks like some kind of animal tore her apart."

Simon watched with barely concealed curiosity as Jim knelt down by the corpse. The detective snapped on rubber gloves, reached forward with one finger and pushed gently at the battered skull. It rolled easily, separated as it was from the rest of the corpse.

"He ripped her head off," he said, so quietly Simon almost missed the words. "The bruise at her cheek…"

Simon looked again. Her jaw was hanging open, broken at the joint, but there, under the streaks of blood from the torn scalp, was a long, vertical bruise in front of her ear. He looked closer. It looked like a strike bruise, from a chopping blow, either with a blunt instrument or the side of a hand.

Jim had moved now, and was examining one clawed hand. It was also separated from its limb, and lay curled by itself a few feet from the body. Jim held the hand up to his face, and Simon moved hastily to shield the detective's movements from the rest of the crime scene team. For a horrified second Simon was certain Jim was going to lick it, then he took a deep, relieved breath when Jim simply sniffed it. Simon saw the narrowed blue eyes gradually widen, lose focus, then snap back to life.

He didn't know how Ellison did this, and in spite of the kid's explanations it still seemed more like magic than real life, but he was glad he had the Sentinel on his side. Even if his methods were more than a little strange. Now, he was sniffing the material along the spine of the corpse, that small amount of fabric that wasn't soaked in blood.

Jim's head shot up, and Simon instinctively glanced around for the source of the danger. Then Jim looked over at him, shook his head, and said, softly, "Shit!"

"Jim?"

"Brackett." Flat tone. Utter conviction. Simon's neck itched.

"Shit," he agreed. Then he gestured for the coroner's attendants to come gather up the remains. "Time to do some footwork. We find out where she's been-"

"We find Brackett." There was a feral gleam in Ellison's eyes that Simon didn't completely trust. But this was his bloodhound, and he was prepared to trust him as far as it took to get the rogue CIA agent back in custody.

He might even leave Ellison alone in the interrogation room with the creep for a little while when they _did_ bring him in.

And turn off the videocameras.

Blair was half asleep when he heard the click of the lock downstairs. "Jim?" he said softly, knowing his partner would hear him. To his faint surprise, Jim didn't answer. He heard the quick patter of feet coming up the stairs, and only had time to remember that Jim hadn't been wearing his Reeboks when the hand came across the front of his face. He pulled in a breath in automatic response, trying to yell, and a faintly sweet scent filled his nose. His head went fuzzy, and he looked up to see a familiar face bending over him. Strong arms gathered him up, quilt and all, and he muttered, "Fuck. Not again," before passing out.

 

Ellison was pacing at the station, now. He knew it had been driving Blair crazy, but he hadn't been able to stop, and it was getting worse. His skin itched. His scalp crawled. Hell, even his _teeth_ were itching. Something was wrong.

He'd thought, when he saw the mess that had been Barnes, that he'd had the answer. The other Sentinel hadn't gone very far, was still inside his territory, still a threat to his Guide, himself, his tribe. So, when he found out she was not only dead, but destroyed, surely the itch should have faded.

It hadn't. In fact, it had gotten much, much worse. He tried to do the things Sandburg had taught him, center himself, listen to his instincts, try to pinpoint the threat. It worked really well on the streets. It didn't work so well in the middle of the precinct. The third time he was interrupted he'd literally growled at Rafe, causing the younger cop to drop the file he was holding. Scooping up the fallen papers in silent apology, he found himself caught in the clear whiteness of the weave of the paper he was holding. A heartbeat away from a total zone out, he caught himself.

It was all perfectly clear. One sentinel had indeed been killed. But the other one, the truly dangerous one … was still here. And Blair was in danger.

He thrust the papers blindly at Rafe then nearly bowled him over heading for his desk. He grabbed his keys, his jacket and his spare .38 from the drawer and headed for the loft at top speed. The bastard had taken Sandburg from him once. No way in hell was he gonna get away with it again.

 

Brackett had taken him out through the side door, around to the alley, and directly into the back of the pickup with camper shell he'd gotten specifically for the snatch. Then a few hours' drive across the border, a solid story about fishing with buddies at Penticton, then over to a hideaway previously prepared in the Selkirk Mountains. Everything went precisely according to plan. As it should.

He'd been consciously monitoring Blair's vital signs, reassured by the steady heartbeat and calm whooshing of air in his lungs. The Guide was sleeping soundly, a deep, chemically aided healing sleep. He'd looked surprisingly robust for a man who'd nearly died and that in itself gave Lee cause for hope. The sooner Blair was healthy, the sooner they could get to work forming a bond, the sooner he could get rid of Ellison once and for all, and the sooner he could get on with his life. Their life together. His groin stirred at the thought, at the tactile memory of the last time he had Blair Sandburg, and he grinned briefly to himself. Later. Not much later, but when they were safe and alone. He was going to take it slow this time, because he could, and because he had to. But Blair would be his.

When they got to the cabin, Lee carried the unconscious form inside and deposited him on the bed, making sure he was comfortable and securely bound before returning to the truck for supplies. Once they were settled in, he methodically primed all nine levels of security devices hidden in the woods and small clearing surrounding the structure. Each trap was lethal, and all were built in a fashion that screened them from Sentinel senses. If he was lucky, Ellison would try to find them and rescue Blair before the Guide was fully cognizant. Then he, Brackett, could go outside, clean up the mess, burn the remains, and go back to the important things in life.

 

Jim nearly wore out lights, siren, and tires making it back to the loft. The door was locked, but his nose twitched and he coughed, choking on the strong smell of ammonia. Oh, yeah, Brackett had been there -- and he'd done whatever he could to cover his tracks.

Just about taking the door off its hinges in his haste, Jim barreled through the doorway and hit the stairs, gun out and up, every sense on alert. "Blair!" he yelled, but he knew it was useless before the word left his mouth. There was no sound in the loft. It was empty.

No heartbeat.

The bed was stripped, Sandburg was gone, and he was wasting time. He holstered his gun, grabbed the cell phone and hit the second speed dial button. Simon answered on the third ring.

"Sir, Brackett took Sandburg," he rapped out, ignoring his captain's strident demands to know what the hell he meant taking off like that in the middle of a murder investigation. His brisk statement shut Simon up completely. "I need an APB put out on him. I'm going to track him, please send backup."

"Where?" Simon asked reasonably.

"I'll tell you when I know," Jim answered truthfully, then shut off the phone and focused his senses on finding his partner. Standing stock still in the middle of the room, he extended first his sense of smell, then his sight. The loft looked clean. Sighing with irritated frustration, he did it again, pushing a little harder this time.

Sweat, musk, chamomile tea, orange peel, chili, toasted bread, newsprint … chili. Beer. His eyes narrowed to close in on a hair, lying along the stair. Not much, not enough -- but it was proof. He followed his nose out to the front of the loft, down the stairs, out the side door, and stopped dead in the alley.

This was the way Brackett had taken him. There was no fresh oil, no tread marks, nothing to mark the passage of the vehicle the bastard had used to take Sandburg away. Jim crouched, running his hands over everything in the alley, extending sight and touch and smell until he was past the point where he would have been safe, desperate to find a trace of his Guide, some clue, no matter how small, that would lead him to his partner. A broken patch in the pavement gradually grew, darker, larger, all encompassing, and he fell into the darkness, no voice to call him back, no hand on his shoulder to anchor him.

 

Simon went to the loft himself, half expecting his cell phone to ring at any moment and Jim to tell him that he'd tracked the car by a microscopic trail of antifreeze or something and needed backup to pick up what was left of Brackett.

No such luck.

Jim wasn't at the loft, but his truck was. There was no sign of disturbance or forced entry. The door was still unlocked. The elevator was empty, the stairs were empty, the front of the building was empty. For a weird second Simon had the impression that the whole damned world had disappeared and he was the only person left on the planet. Then he rounded the corner of the building toward the back alley and nearly tripped over his detective.

"Damnit, Ellison! What the hell are you doing!" Not much, from the look of it. Simon realized that Jim hadn't even flinched when he'd hollered in the man's ear. Not a good sign. Neither was the unnatural stillness in the big body, or the totally rapt look on the frozen face. "Oh, Sandburg, where are you when we need you," Simon sighed, then bit back a curse as he remembered precisely _why_ Sandburg wasn't available. Standing uncertainly beside the life-size statue that was his friend, he tentatively tugged at his sleeve. "C'mon, Jim, don't do this to me. Don't do it to **yourself**. The kid needs you. Come on back, now, from wherever the hell it is you're at."

There was no response, and Simon settled in for the long haul. He had to get Jim out of this state, and Sandburg was getting further out of reach the longer they wasted time with this. When another ten minutes of coaxing, ordering, cajoling and barking didn't do the trick, he went back upstairs. Got a bucket. Filled it with ice water. Tramped back downstairs, carefully removed Jim's gun from its holster, and emptied the contents of the bucket into Jim's face.

The results were spectacular.

 

Hearing and taste had been subsumed to smell and touch, which were then harnessed to sight. The attack, when it came, overwhelmed his vulnerable sense of touch, which had been cranked up almost as far as it could go. Thousands, no, millions of icy needles plunged into his body, battered against his flesh, burned his face. He snapped out of the zone immediately, so fast his other senses went momentarily off-line, and he clawed at his skin, sure he was coated with burning oil, it hurt so badly. Instinctively, he grabbed for his gun, then panicked slightly when his fingers closed on empty leather.

He crouched down in a defensive position, ready to defend, poised to kill. Slowly, as no further attack came and his touch adjusted itself back to a more normal level of intensity, other senses came back, hearing first. There was a low, rumbling noise coming from directly in front of him. It was calming, soothing, and he found himself responding to it, even though it wasn't the _right_ voice. Sight was next, and he focused on an unexpected sight -- Simon, backed up against the wall, both hands, palms out, up next to his ears, eyes huge, mouth going a mile a minute. Take away eight inches in height, sixty pounds, a lot of pigment, and add a mass of hair, and he'd've been a dead ringer for Sandburg.

The thought brought him all the way back to reality, and with it came realization. He didn't have a trail to follow. His knees wavered, and he stared around the alleyway, lost. His eyes came back to Simon, and he cut into the reassuring flow of words.

"He's gone, Simon." Anger, desperation, fear all mingled in the simple statement of fact.

"I know, Jim. But we'll find him," as his boss and friend did his best to reassure him.

"Yes," he agreed quietly, the mix of emotions coalescing into a ball of fierce determination in the pit of his stomach. "I will."

 

It wasn't that he was beautiful, although he was a very attractive man. It was something different that Brackett saw when he looked at Blair Sandburg.

He saw possibilities.

He'd always been a loner. Now that was no longer possible. He'd always learned from the best, then eradicated them, so that he was the best in their stead. It had kept him alive and as close to sane as he got his entire life. It had put him at the top of the Game.

It had pulled him back down again.

Now, he not only had a partner, he had another half. Sandburg was brilliant. Annoyingly moral with it, but that could be overcome in time. Brackett also had something else he'd never had. An imperative to protect another human being. He sensed that if something … permanent happened to Sandburg, then his last chance at getting a handle on his life would be gone. He and Blair could do great things together.

Now he just had to convince the Professor of that.

He started gently. Of necessity, Blair had to be restrained. Otherwise he would do something foolish, like try to escape. Then he'd be caught in a trap and probably killed. Not something Brackett was willing to chance. So he was securely and lightly chained by the ankle to the bed. The chain was long enough to allow him to get to the chamber pot in the corner, the sink beside it, and within four feet of the window so he could see outside. It was a comfortable room, with a radiator heating it, a soft, thick blanket replacing the quilt he'd been brought in with, and plenty of room to stretch out on the large double bed.

Not that one would know it looking at Sandburg. The young man had woken from his initial sleep with a jolt, then nearly broken his leg trying to escape. Lee'd had to wrap himself around the frantically struggling body to keep him from hurting himself. Then he'd explained that Blair was safe, that he was not going to hurt him, that everything was going to be all right.

Blair had responded by questioning his ancestry, his intelligence, his capability to walk upright and his relative place in the gene pool. Then he'd tried to head-butt him, bite him, kick him and pummel him. Of course, all he'd done was wear himself out. But he had tried.

Spirit was a wonderful thing.

That had been four days before. Since then, Blair had thrown his food at Lee, nearly sawed his ankle in half trying to pull it from the cuff, gone on a hunger strike and screamed abuse until he was hoarse. It had been painful to watch. Finally, Brackett gave in and began dosing him with a sleeping drug, because all the fuss was wearing on Blair's health. And he'd taken him away, in part, to heal him -- not to make him worse.

The small amount of narcotic was working very well. Blair was floating in a haze most of the time, amenable, sleepy, and no longer trying to hurt either himself or Brackett. It was working. Blair was relying on him for everything, and whether he admitted it or not, a bond was forming.

Brackett had intended on waiting until Blair was healthy before he began his campaign to strengthen that bond. But there was something … appealing about the young man sprawling bonelessly in the middle of the soft covers. Brackett knew his own psyche very well, and knew that the combination of vulnerability, fight, captivity and lust between them would be good.

Very good.

On the afternoon of the fifth day, he finally gave into temptation. Settling alongside the drowsy form on the bed, he began running his hand gently along the inside of Blair's leg, starting at the manacle around his ankle, gliding along the length of calf, the roundness of the knee joint, the satin skin of the inner thigh. Since he'd been keeping Blair naked as a deterrent on the off chance that he _might_ find a way to escape, there was no impediment to his wandering hands. He looked up at Blair's face as his hand cupped the soft wrinkled sac between his thighs. Hazy dark blue eyes shifted past him, around the room, and back to his face.

"Jim?" he slurred. For a moment, Brackett's fingers tightened, and Blair moaned in response to the pressure. Then he eased his grip. Not answering, he simply dipped his head and began sucking. Soon the moans from the head of the bed weren't forming words at all. One hand worked at Blair's testicles while the other stroked his shaft, and he sucked steadily at the head. In very little time, Blair was writhing under his hands, humping up into his grip. When he felt the sac in his hand tighten, Brackett backed off, brought both hands to bear, and rapidly stroked him to completion. Blair cried out, sharply, arched, then settled back against the blanket. Brackett kept stroking gently, until the tremors subsided, then walked over, picked up a washcloth from the side of the sink, and came back to the bed. Wiping the spilled semen from Blair's skin, he smiled.

Not Jim, never again.

 

It became a ritual of a sort. Twice, sometimes three times a day, Blair would wake to find Brackett's hands on him. Lee would suckle and milk him dry, then clean him up. Blair's existence narrowed to a hazy combination of gently coaxed ecstasy and deep sleep. In the back of his mind, buried under layers of drug-induced lethargy, a voice was urging him to fight. It kept saying a name, bringing a face up to him, but he couldn't quite hear the name, couldn't quite focus on the face. So he drifted, and he woke enough to moan and shiver and lie satiated until he slept again. And as he slept, he dreamt.

He recognized the forest, the temple, the heat and the moisture dripping from the leaves.

He didn't know the cougar.

He was lying on his side, curled over, panting. He stretched his paws out toward the temple, but the stretching hurt, and he didn't understand it. Looking down, he saw that one hind paw was caught in a vine. He tugged, but before he could pull free, he was distracted by the cougar. It was grooming him, licking at the wound, cleaning it. He wanted to roll away, even barked weakly at the cougar, but it ignored him and kept cleaning.

It felt good.

It shouldn't.

It was healing.

It couldn't.

It was.

 

Ellison was losing his grip. It had been almost two weeks since Sandburg had been kidnapped, and they didn't have a hope of a lead. No one had seen or heard a damned thing. There were no paper trails of any sort to follow. He'd even contacted old acquaintances from Covert Ops who were still in the field, and so far, no go.

He wasn't sleeping, wasn't eating, wasn't doing a damned thing but trying to find his partner. Captain Banks had finally put him on desk duty, next step administrative leave, because he couldn't focus on anything but Sandburg. He wasn't even pretending to carry on with his work, because the center of his entire life was missing, and until it was restored, he was hopelessly off balance.

Entering the third week of enforced insanity, he was sitting at his computer running down everything he could think of on Latin America and CIA operations in the early eighties when a familiar name came up on the screen. Kelso.

Maybe he could help. Thought was catalyst for action, and he headed immediately to the University. Once there, he waited as patiently as possible for Kelso to finish his lecture, then met him at the front of the room.

"Detective!" the professor greeted him. "I'd say this is a pleasure, but I can tell from your expression it won't be."

"Can I talk to you?" Jim nodded toward the door. "Your office?"

"Of course," Kelso responded, then quickly cut off the last of his students' questions with a blanket statement that he'd have office hours the next morning, and that now he had an appointment he had to keep. The two boys and one girl took one look at Ellison and cleared the room.

Safely behind closed doors, Ellison laid out what had happened to Blair, and who was responsible. Kelso winced at the name. "God, not again. I wish someone would just shoot the bastard and put us all out of his misery."

"Find him," Jim promised, "and I will." He stared down at the professor, and Kelso believed him.

"Let me put out some feelers, Detective. I'll find out whatever I can and get back to you as soon as possible." Jim nodded his thanks and turned to go. "Blair Sandburg is a good friend, Detective," Kelso added softly. "We **will** get him back."

Jim clenched his hand on the door frame and took a deep breath. "Soon, Dr. Kelso. Please."

 

Blair was getting stronger, and Brackett was relieved to see it. He'd made arrangements long before, when he'd first taken the Guide, to escape out of the country to a hideout he had in Cuba. As soon as Blair was healthy enough, they'd go there. Once safely away, he would be able to cut down on the narcotics, eventually dispose of them completely. Blair would have no way to escape.

Until then, he used what he had to. He cared for his Guide, and he began training the young man to expect, and need, both the drugs and the pleasure. After two weeks of both, he allowed himself the pleasure of the next step.

That night, he dosed Blair, and stroked and petted and sucked him as usual. But this time, he was in bed too, and when Blair was relaxed in the aftermath of climax Brackett turned him on his stomach, slid a pillow under his hips, and worked him open. Then he slowly, carefully entered him, and thrust to his own completion. The sensation was as good as he remembered it, hot, tight, sweet, and Blair swamped his senses. Just as he had before.

Just as he always would.

He slumped over his Guide's sweaty back, then slowly pulled out and shakily cleaned them both off. Then he draped himself around Blair and drifted off to sleep.

 

Something was radically wrong. The hands weren't quite right, but they were just hands, and they felt good, and they left him alone afterward. This time, they weren't the end of it.

He felt strong arms turn him over, long fingers slide around his hip and align his spent penis against a soft pillow, then those same long fingers slide into his body and start to stretch him. It felt right, but wrong at the same time. Right action, right care in the preparation, right approach to filling him and fucking him.

Wrong cock.

Wrong thighs slapping against his. Wrong voice in his ear. Wrong mouth at the side of his neck. Wrong angle, wrong rhythm, even as his prostate was stroked and he felt his body respond again, even as clever (wrong) fingers milked his new erection, even as warm (wrong) hips nestled against his, even as strong (wrong) arms wrapped around him.

It was wrong. But it felt right.

He fell back to sleep, and the voice was a little louder. The face was a little clearer.

Then he was back in the forest, and the cougar was propped against him. The wound was nearly healed, but it itched, and he couldn't scratch it. He snuffled into the golden fur against his snout, and it was the wrong color.

He could hear sounds, very faint, but frantic. He felt comfortable, and safe, surrounded as he was by the cougar's care. But as secure and unthreatened as he felt, he also felt … wrong. He tried to concentrate on the sounds coming from the heart of the forest, but his head was fuzzy and he couldn't hear right. The effort wore him out, and he settled back against the cougar's warm flank.

He'd just have a little nap. Maybe it would be clearer when he woke up.

 

Objectively, Ellison knew that some things couldn't be rushed. The deeper the shadows around the source, the longer it would take to get to the information.

He wasn't doing objective real well.

It had been almost a full month, now, and he was getting nowhere fast. His dreams, when he did actually get some sleep, were muddled and confused. Lots of fighting through tangled vines without a machete. Lots of screaming at the top of his lungs and fighting as hard as he could only to end up completely entangled, caught fast. Then he'd fall out of bed, land with a thump hard enough to wake himself, and find himself wrapped up like a fucking mummy in the sheets.

He was seriously contemplating contacting Gustavo and seeing what it would take to put out a contract on Brackett when his computer beeped. He recognized the edress and immediately switched over to email.

From : jkelso@u.ranier.edu

To: ellison@mc.cascadepd.gov

Subj: Sighted

The fox has been run to earth. Come by for coordinates.

          jk

It was enough. It would have to be. For a brief moment he considered calling in Simon and making sure he had backup. But his instincts told him the best way, perhaps the only way, to take Brackett would be as quickly, quietly and permanently as possible. One man operation.

His operation.

 

Kelso sat at his desk and watched his visitor disappear. He liked Jim Ellison. Considered him one of the few people on earth he'd judge worth Blair Sandburg. Had gotten to know him as well as might be expected for an intensely private man on relatively casual acquaintance.

The Jim Ellison who'd just taken the slip of paper and vanished out the door was not a man Kelso knew. He was not an enemy he'd care to have, and even as an ally he'd be very cautious. There was something about his eyes that was … not quite human. Fierce, intelligent, determined, feral, even, but not human.

A shiver passed through him, and he turned to his computer. He sent out a coded note of appreciation for the information, then wheeled himself away from the desk and over to the window. Staring out at the misty rain, he found himself wondering how it would go down, and wishing, for a scant second, that he could be there to see it.

The pleasure was happening more often, now, an almost constant counterpoint to the rush of the drug through his blood. His mouth or his penis or his ass was in near constant use, but he wasn't hurt, wasn't pushed beyond anything he could handle. Hands were always on his skin, it seemed, massaging, cleaning, stroking, petting.

Blair knew it was wrong. But he couldn't understand what had been right, and why this was not it.

The voice in the back of his mind was faltering now. He could barely hear it.

When he dreamt of the forest, the cougar was always there. The heart of the forest wept and cried, and the wolf didn't remember why.

 

Ellison was operating on instinct. He hadn't felt this edge even when he'd gone against Yuri, because Yuri hadn't held the trump card.

Blair.

Sandburg was in there, and he was vulnerable. Jim knew that Brackett would have an array of electronic listening devices around the perimeter. So Jim had gone to some friends, squeaks and geeks from black ops who owed him a few favors, and he'd come armed with his own countermeasures.

Safely out of the range he'd been told to expect from state of the art equipment, he set up the lap-top and tapped in the codes he'd been given. They were blanket signals, reflecting signals back onto themselves, in essence creating a black hole in the security net. Knowing it wouldn't fool the system for long, hoping it would be long enough, he wove into the trees surrounding the house and headed for his prey.

The first trap nearly speared him. He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, his ears picked up the swish of displaced air, and he threw himself sideways just in time to escape impalement on a wooden spike, now buried a foot deep in a tree trunk. He swallowed, upped the intensity of his senses a notch, and went with his instincts.

One inch away from putting his foot down between two trees, he froze. There was heat there, and there shouldn't have been. Withdrawing his foot as delicately as a cat picking its way through spilled water, he concentrated on the heat source. Eventually, his eyes caught the pattern of an electrified net spread out under the leaves. Far enough down that the light tread of the occasional forest animal wouldn't trigger it, and with enough voltage to fry a human on the first step. He backtracked a little way, looked around, and couldn't see the side edge of the net. Okay. Couldn't go around it. Had to go over it. With a small growl, he scrabbled up a handy tree. Eyes scanning ahead, ears tuned for the tell-tale creak of a branch that wouldn't bear his weight, he moved forward, branch to branch, tree to tree, until finally after what felt like an eternity the far edge of the net appeared. Leaving it intact, not wanting to set off any alarms, he ventured forward.

 

In all the time Brackett had had Blair, all the ways he had had him, he had never kissed him. He realized this oversight one afternoon, buried to the hilt in Blair's ass, hands working his Guide's nipples, face buried in his Guide's hair. With a final thrust, he came hard enough to nearly lose consciousness, then carefully pulled out. Turning Blair gently, he wove his fingers in the curls at either side of his Guide's skull, and devoured his mouth.

To his triumphant satisfaction, Blair's mouth opened to accept his kiss, tongue sliding forward to share tastes. He moaned, and Blair moaned back. The sound made him stiffen.

"jim"

No. Not Jim. Would never be Jim again. Anger washed through him at Blair's inability to accept the reality of his new place, of his new Sentinel. He drew back, one hand wrenching from Blair's hair to circle his throat. Then he froze in place, staring at his hand. His eyes darted from the confused, uncomprehending azure eyes to the slender throat under his fingers. The grip eased until it became a caress, and he dropped a kiss alongside the pulse point at the base of Blair's throat.

"No," he said quietly. He would not kill the Guide. He would _protect_ the Guide.

He would _kill_ the other _Sentinel_.

 

Ground that had looked and felt solid under Ellison's feet suddenly gave way, and only explosive reflexes kept him from falling into a pit that hadn't been there a moment ago. There were razorblades embedded in the sides of the pit, and sharpening his gaze, he could see a smear of light liquid along the edges. The faintest smell of almonds tickled his nose, and he breathed harshly, trying to calm his heartbeat at his near escape. If the fall hadn't killed him the poison certainly would have.

The traps were slowing him down. He didn't have a lot of time before the blind spot he'd jury-rigged in the perimeter surveillance net became obvious and he lost the element of surprise.

Something snapped at the thought of being so close to his Guide and losing him again. His body lightened, and his speed increased even as his heart rate dropped. Time slowed to a crawl and he slipped through the forest like a ghost.

Behind him, metal crashed together as a leg trap missed his ankle by a whisper. A tiny popping sound and a whiff of spray washed through the air, killing the vegetation it impacted, just missing his face. Foliage parted to reveal camouflaged razor wire, an inch from his chest as he slid sideways through the brush. An instant before a sonic explosion hit, his hearing dialed down to zero, warned by the disturbance of the air pushed to the front of the sound wave. His entire being was reduced to survival instinct, one thought taking all others from his mind. Reclaim the Guide.

At the edge of the final clearing before the house, he felt tiny vibrations under the ground. He sniffed deeply, and smelled the faintest whiff of explosives. Reaching out with his hands, unable to discern any difference in the ground pattern with his sight, he used touch to determine the placement of landmines from the edge of the clearing to the walls of the house, hovering fingertips centimeters above the dirt, feeling for minute vibrations in the air to tell him where the live, electronically primed mines were planted.

He would never remember the trip in through the forest, or the narrow escapes he made. All he would remember is peering around the corner of a window to see Lee Brackett and Blair Sandburg nude in bed, wrapped around one another, kissing. He nearly zoned on the sight of his partner's lips opening under Brackett's mouth. Then the obscenity of a kiss broke, and a whisper of sound came from Blair.

"jim"

It was loud to his ears. He started to move forward, and his eyes caught a shimmer in the air. Relying on touch again, he discerned lines of infrared energy crossing the window. Backing away, he did a quick reconnoiter of the outside of the house. The IR net was secure everywhere. With the sinking knowledge screaming at him that time had run out, he edged back around the corner of the house.

Brackett had left the bed and was standing at a sink, running water over a cloth. Jim took in the long thread of chain holding Blair to the bed, the cleanliness of the room, and the generally healthy appearance of his partner, then went with instinct one last time. Pulling his Colt 9 mm sub-machine gun from his back, he shattered the window with the butt, threw himself through the resulting hole, and brought the weapon to bear on his enemy, placing his body between Brackett and Sandburg.

A boot lashed out and caught the stock, jolting it out of his hands. He clawed futilely at the weapon as it was wrenched from him, and lashed out with a foot, kicking it away, finally, from both combatants. With a snarl, he flew at Brackett, all instinct and hatred, no finesse or science left. Energy flared between them, and Brackett responded in kind, as their bodies crashed together, hands digging at eyes, knees, elbows, feet lashing out at chests and groins. Blood flowed as blows landed, and neither heard the commands being bellowed from the bed behind them. All that existed in the world was the tang of blood and sweat, the thundering sound of the Enemy's heart, and the sheer animal need to rip that heart from his body.

 

Blair was seeing things, and it wasn't just from the drugs in his system. Jim, he knew Jim, how could he forget Jim? He couldn't, hadn't, of course, had merely been distracted, ambushed. Mislead.

But they were both Sentinels.

He was seeing three worlds, overlaying one another, people moving in and around one another without overlap. Jim, crouched over him, telling him to stay put, to stay safe. Alex, staring at a clump of flowers, her face lighting up in a smile as she successfully dialed down her senses for the first time. Lee Brackett, hand wrapped around his throat, turning the threat into a caress. Jim, promising to keep him safe. Alex, apologizing with tears in her eyes as she tried to shoot him -- and couldn't. Brackett, nuzzling the back of his neck, holding him … Jim holding him … Alex kissing his cheek … the cougar licking his wound.

Jim shooting the wolf.

Images over the reality, like shadows in a puppet play. A cougar and a panther, circling one another, grappling, clawing, biting. Tearing at one another. A wolf, barely healed, torn by the need to protect. Protect the Sentinel. But which Sentinel? How? WHO?

Protect the Sentinel.

Too few. Wild, can be tamed, tamed, can be set free. Potential as long as there is life.

The calling of the Guide. Protect the Sentinel.

"Stop!" This time it was a howl.

This time they heard him.

 

Ellison froze at the command from his Guide. So did Brackett, for a moment, then he seized the advantage. Or tried to.

Instincts were still running high, and Jim caught the movement in the muscles beneath him telegraphing the blow. He twisted and grabbed, turning the momentum around on his attacker. His hands tightened in a death grip.

"Please."

It was Sandburg's voice, calm, centered, irresistible. He paused, looked up through the sweat and blood streaking across his vision, and asked, quietly, "What?"

"Don't kill him."

A knife twisted in his gut, and his grip tightened. "Why?"

"You are a Sentinel. He is a Sentinel. I must protect the Sentinel, and I don't know how. If you kill him, you will kill a Sentinel. If he kills you, I will kill him. I … don't know what to do."

Ellison looked down at Brackett, who was looking at Sandburg in shock. "Kill me?" Brackett managed to squeeze out past the choke hold across his throat.

"Jim's my life," Sandburg said simply. "My imperative as a Guide is to protect Sentinels. But my choice, as **Jim's** guide, is to protect him. So I can't let him kill you. You didn't hurt me, and he doesn't have to kill you to protect me. But I can't let you kill him, either, because if you do," his eyes turned fierce, the calmness belayed by the ferocity of his protective instinct, "I will kill you." The light faded in his eyes, and he settled back to a sitting position on the bed. "So I'm kinda stuck here."

"We could turn him back over to the CIA," Jim suggested, tightening his grip against Brackett's increased struggle. "Except they'd just let him loose again. We could lock him up, but he'd find a way to get out. Or we could turn him over to the government as a lab rat," a brief pause as Brackett nearly bucked him off and he fought to regain control, "but he'd probably talk, then we'd all be in trouble." He looked over at Blair, who was playing with the chain running from his ankle to the bed frame, and staring at Brackett. "Or I could just kill him."

A sound took his attention away from his Guide, and he looked past Sandburg to see the panther, sitting slumped in the corner. Blood ran from wounds in its side and along its shoulder. Further away sprawled a cougar, licking at its own wounds and hissing at the panther. Between them a wolf prowled, back and forth, whining a little and barking questions.

The Sentinel. The other sentinel. Finally, the wolf turned to the cougar, and Jim's heart stopped. The muzzle came down, and the wolf nosed at the tawny cat. The cougar looked over at the wolf, then back at the panther, who was watching intently. The wolf nudged him again. With a final questioning cough the cougar turned his back to the panther, licked the wolf's cheek, and staggered away.

When Jim looked down again, his choke hold had come undone. Brackett was nowhere to be seen. Blair was sitting on the bed, staring at him. Smiling at him.

"That was probably the stupidest thing I have ever asked you to do, Jim," he said quietly. Ellison nodded numbly in agreement. "Thank you." He tugged at his ankle chain. "Now, would you please get me the hell out of here and take me home?"

 

Jim located the computer controlling the surveillance and security net around the house, disabling the minefield and all of the computer controlled traps before using the short-wave in the kitchen to call for help. It arrived in the form of a Medivac helicopter from Kamloops. The only thing connecting Jim to reality for the rest of the night was holding Sandburg's body close to his all the way to the hospital, then monitoring his heartbeat throughout the night.

In the morning, Simon showed up, bearing coffee and asking questions. Most of them, Jim couldn't answer. What he did remember was fuzzy at best, and incomplete at most. Brackett was gone, Blair was going to be okay as soon as they got the drugs out of his system, Brackett hadn't hurt him … hurting being relative, of course. Jim was on autopilot for the next three days, until Sandburg was cleaned up, cleaned out, and discharged with seven pill bottles and exhaustive instructions into Jim's care. Blair slept all the way to Cascade.

Pulling up in front of the loft, for a moment, Jim thought he felt eyes on him. He shuddered, then concentrated, trying to sort out the fatigue and the paranoia from what his instincts were actually telling him. The itch wasn't there. The need to prowl and protect was muted. Brackett was really gone.

For now.

Leaning over and gently shaking his partner's shoulder, he said, "Chief. Come on, let's get you into bed."

Sandburg mumbled something indistinguishable even to Sentinel hearing and half fell out of the cab into his arms. Staggering slightly, he managed to maneuver both of them into the elevator and into the loft. The stairs were too big a challenge, and he sank onto the couch, draping Blair over the top of him. Wrapping his arms around the smaller body, drinking in as much of his partner's presence as he could on a deep breath, he closed his eyes and nuzzled his face into Sandburg's mop of curls.

It had been a long fight, but he'd won. The Guide was home safe and sound. And while the threat from the other Sentinel remained, that was a fight for another day. A day when they would meet, alone, without the wolf between them. The day when only one would leave the field of battle.

Another day.

 

_Refraction_

Genetics, training and instincts gave him an edge. From the Pacific coast to the Atlantic, he ran, underground when he could, in plain sight when he had to, never stopping long enough to be seen. He put his future behind him and, in a final attempt to find a plan that would work, he headed into his past.

Lee Brackett would never consider himself a desperate man. But since Plan A and Plan B had both been spectacular disasters, and Plan C hadn't the hope of a snowball in hell of panning out, he was forced to reconsider. He was a Sentinel. He needed a Guide. He was a loner by choice who had to rely on a partner for his life, and the partner he had chosen had escaped from him. Twice. A third time was not feasible. One could not improvise a melody on the same tune forever. And his repertoire was nearly exhausted.

As was he.

He'd healed from the injuries Detective Ellison had dealt him in the final fight for control of Blair Sandburg. Brackett wasn't used to losing. And he wasn't used to running out of options. At first he'd blamed Ellison. Then he'd blamed the federal agent who'd initially tripped him up. His field operations supervisor, his superiors at the CIA, hell, even his parents, for giving birth to a freak to start the whole merry-go-round off. But he couldn't change the past, and he couldn't kill people who were already dead. Which only left one direction to go.

Forward.

Starting with the one who was responsible for triggering this so-called gift. Maybe Doctor Rangely would be lucky, and would be able to tell him where to go to find another Guide. Surely he wasn't the only lab rat in the maze. Or maybe the doctor would be unlucky. If he couldn't help, it would take him much longer to die.

Nine days after leaving the mountains of southwestern Canada, he slipped into Washington D.C. After runs on lockers in an airport, bus station and train station, he had his stash, his weapons, and the beginnings of a plan.

Two nights later, he had his target.

"Hello, Doctor," he said quietly, one hand on the back of the dark man's neck, the other holding the Glock steadily at the center of the scientist's back. "Do you remember me?" A shaky, hesitant nod made him smile. "I thought you might. We're going to have a little conversation." The snub nose of the gun gently nudged the man forward past the living room toward the dining table. "You have information. You will give it to me. If you tell me quickly, I will kill you quickly. If you make the foolish choice to try to hold out on me, you will die slowly. I do hope, for your sake, that you live up to your reputation for brilliance and do the intelligent thing. But one way or another, you will give me my answers."

"What do you want?" The voice was calm, steady. Lee sighed. This was going to be a long night.

With a mental shrug, he forced the doctor down into a straight-backed chair and placed two fingers along his carotid artery. Pressing just long enough to give the man a taste of pain, he asked, "Who, besides Blair Sandburg, is qualified to be a Guide for a Sentinel?"

"Go fuck yourself, Brackett."

It set the stage for a very long night, indeed.

As morning was breaking through the kitchen window, Lee wiped the last of the surfaces clean of prints, and stared pensively at the remains of Arlen Rangely. He'd lasted longer than expected, considering the leisurely pace Lee had set. By the time Lee'd broken every small bone in his body and started in on the joints, he'd been delirious, but he hadn't actually lost consciousness until Lee had started to flay the skin carefully from his extremities. The vodka washed over the bared flesh had been an artistic touch. But it hadn't been enough. The scientist had died without revealing the identities of any other suspected Guides or Sentinel/Guide pairings. Brackett sighed again, washed the last specks of skin and blood off his Bowie knife, and stowed it carefully in his pack.

There were always other sources. And while revenge was too petty a reason to risk capture, he had to admit there had been a visceral satisfaction in revisiting a little of the agony he'd endured for eight months of solitary torture on the man who had masterminded it.

One down. Many to go. Perhaps in the frenzy Rangely's death would cause one of the man's colleagues would lead him to a substitute for Sandburg. And even if he didn't find a Guide … at least he would have some fun.

 

"Homicide." Tim Bayliss stared up at the white board as his mind automatically went through the motions of taking a new report. Not many names up in red, but then he hadn't been back in the squad long enough to have too many names in any color. He was 100% according to the docs, 100% according to Gee, and 100% flaky according to the rest of the murder police, who had taken to calling him Zen Detective. But dying would do that to a man.

So would losing his partner.

He forcibly yanked his mind away from Frank Pembleton's abrupt departure from his life a few months before. As soon as Frank knew he was going to make it, that the bullets he'd taken saving Frank's life weren't going to take Tim's own, he'd split. Not that Tim could blame him. He'd been doing some heavy soul searching of his own. Of course, the conclusion he'd reached, that he was a detective, and death and departing partners wouldn't change that one solid fact in the shifting landscape of his life, was the opposite of the one Frank had drawn. But, hey, that happened sometimes.

The voice on the other end of the line started talking about skinned broken bodies and his ears perked up. Disgusting. Back on full duties a week, and the first one he catches is dismembered, the second one skinned. What was Baltimore coming to these days?

"Munch," he called out, grabbing up his coat and heading out into the cold, "Come on." He ignored the cynical look he got. Munch was just sitting on his butt waxing philosophic about sex. They could both use the fresh air.

A short ride took them from the downtown hustle to a pocket of wealthy refuge, a renovated suburb within the city that breathed power over the cold streets. Bayliss stared at the darkened windows shutting out the reality around him, and muttered softly, "The night is my companion, and solitude my guide." Munch stared at him for a moment.

"Keats?"

"Sarah McLachlan. Anything strike you funny about this place?"

"Besides the ooze of untouchability and the affronted dignity that only the wealthy and powerful can have when touched by the hand of death?"

"Yeah, besides that."

Munch shrugged. "No, not really."

"It's quiet." Bayliss gestured around the street. "No nosy neighbors. No looky-lous. No bystanders. Nobody walking a dog. Nothing."

Munch looked up the street, down it, and back up at Bayliss. "So what?" Bayliss shrugged.

"Just struck me as weird, that's all." He couldn't explain it, but the back of his neck was itching. It was _too_ quiet. Almost like the neighbors were afraid to look.

"Lately everything is striking you weird, Timmy. Let's go in before I freeze my balls off."

Bayliss shrugged, tried to throw off the feeling, and headed inside. Once he got past the uniform with the slightly green complexion and glassy eyes at the front door, he smelled it. "Shit." Blood. Lots and lots and lots of blood. He bit back the instinctive urge to throw up, sternly ordered his stomach back where it belonged, and headed further into the townhouse.

The corpse was tied to a dining room chair. The room itself, other than the copious amounts of crimson fluid that had seeped into the thick pile of the carpet until it squished under their shoes, was spotless. He licked his lips, trying to ease the dryness, and canvassed the crime site. The body was destroyed, all four limbs broken, all the fingers on both hands broken. The slacks had been cut away at the thighs, and the skin removed in strips from ankle to the jagged hemline, on both legs. The same had been done with the arms, shirt sleeves cut away at the biceps and forearms skinned in long, symmetrical strips. Deep cuts were carved through the fine linen shirt into the chest beneath. The man was drenched in blood. The face was completely untouched. The eyes were rolled back in the head and the lips were pulled back into a scream, but the tongue had been cut out, probably post mortem given the lack of blood pooled behind the lower jaw.

"Somebody went to town on him," Munch opined. No shit, Bayliss thought but didn't say. "Neat housekeeper, though." He gestured through to the kitchen, and Tim looked through the doorway. The counters, sink, and floor shined.

"Wiped down, betcha," he said quietly. "Whatever it was, it wasn't amateur night." He rolled rubber gloves over his hands and began the grisly task of searching the area directly around the corpse. "ID?" he asked the uniform still standing guard at the door.

"A guy name of Arlen Rangely, worked out of the Pentagon, some kinda scientist," the cop offered, trying not to look at the corpse. Bayliss sympathized. Not being able to ignore it, he tried his best not to bathe in the blood all around him and got on with his work.

Two days later, Rangely was in red under his name. The autopsy had listed cause of death as heart failure brought on by extreme trauma and exsanguination. Bayliss had gone home, changed his trousers, and tossed the old ones. That much blood even the best dry cleaners couldn't remove. The scene was swept so clean the lab guys hadn't been able to find a damned thing, and the quiet he'd noticed in the neighborhood extended to every aspect of the victim's life. No family. No friends. No known associates, at least none that he and Munch could shake from the tree. The man had been a cipher, or a true spook, walking through life without leaving any footprints. It had been a very frustrating forty eight hours.

An unexpected influx of suits headed into the Lieutenant's office made him sit up and take notice. Less than ten minutes of muted barking later, the door opened, and Gee waved at him. "Bayliss! Get in here!"

"What's up, Gee?" he asked, crossing the floor and staring curiously at the suits. They stared coolly back. The door shut firmly behind him, and he cocked his head at his boss.

"What's the status on the Rangely case, Detective Bayliss?"

Tim swallowed. Gee wasn't usually so formal, and the suits made him antsy. "No solid leads at this time, sir. No one saw anything, heard anything, and we haven't been able to dig anything up about his life to give us a motive. We've also run into a brick wall with his employers, sir -- nobody wants to talk, at all."

"That's where these … gentlemen come in," Giardello responded. Tim noticed the barely perceptible hesitation before the description and knew that the lieutenant wasn't happy with whatever was going down. He leaned forward, staring at the strangers. "This are Special Agents Morrison and Leavell. They will be taking over the Rangely case."

"But-" he started to protest before the shorter of the two suits interrupted.

"There are aspects of the case that impact national security, Detective," the man said smoothly. Bayliss opened his mouth again and the second one, a tall pudgy guy, stepped in. "Doctor Rangely was working on several projects that could have made him a target for assassination. We will pursue the investigation from this point."

"Turn over the file, Bayliss," the lieutenant said firmly. Tim looked at him. Gee looked back. Neither one of them had any choice. He thought for a moment of attempting one more time to protest, then weighed the possibility of the name ever turning black, given the total lack of clues and cooperation.

"Sure, guys," he acquiesced with false good humor. "Be my guest. Have fun." Stick it up your ass, he mumbled under his breath as he fetched the file. "And good luck. There's not a damned thing there to go on."

"I'm sure we'll do fine," Shorty replied with a nod. I'm sure you will, Tim thought, wondering just what it was they were hiding. He didn't trust the Feds, but his hands were tied on this one. He shrugged, looked over at the Sergeant erasing Rangely from his list, and shook his head.

Weird, from start to finish.

 

Settling deeper in his chair, ignoring the shadows in the basement office that held so much of his life, Special Agent Fox Mulder stared at a grainy, black and white photograph of a being that could be anything from a Sasquatch to a skier in a gorilla suit and wondered about the mysteries of the universe. Across the floor from him, at her own small desk, his partner muttered something about coagulants and venom under her breath and typed away at her computer.

Just another day in the bowels of the FBI, slogging away on the X Files.

Before he could come to any decisive conclusion about the furry blotch against the snow drift, his phone rang. "Mulder," he answered, happy to be distracted.

"How sharp you feeling, Spooky?"

He smiled at the voice even as he winced at the nickname. Stan Convers was one of the few profilers who would still talk to him. Of course, the fact that he fed Stan hints from time to time and let the other agent take the credit for cracking the cases didn't hurt. "Stan, my man, what's happening?"

"Not sure, Spooks. But if you get the chance … take a look at file SP-10953B. You're good at looking below the surface."

"O-kay," he replied slowly. "Any clues here you can drop? This your case?"

"Don't think so, Mulder. And it's not mine. Came across the desk and right out the door, all hush hush. Makes me wonder. Just take a look, okay? Gotta go."

The phone went dead, and Mulder stared off into the distance as he reached out to cradle the receiver. Then he popped his keyboard with two fingers, wending through a few layers of security to get to the file in question. As his eyes skimmed over it, his brain dissected what he was seeing, looking through the bare facts of what seemed to be a routine, if somewhat gruesome, murder to try to find the reason for the secrecy. As he checked through the background of the victim, something clicked.

Rangely. Leavell. Another man named Trudie who'd been involved in what had at the time been explained away as a profile on a rogue agent a couple years before. Put the three together, and he had the military, the FBI and the CIA. All three up to their necks in black ops and medical experimentation. Now, one of them was dead. And before the locals could do their investigation, it was whisked away from them and buried in a dead file in the back of a cabinet.

Smelled like a cover up to him.

"Hey, Scully." She looked up at him, screen glowing eerily off the lenses of her glasses. "Wanna go on a fishing trip?" She quirked a brow at him.

"What's the bait? And will I end up getting bitten?"

"I hope not. But one never knows." He leered playfully at her. She shook her head.

"You bring the beer."

He grinned, and reached out for the phone. "Root?" Scanning through the report, he hit on a number and dialed by touch.

"Homicide," a raspy voice answered.

"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he spieled rapidly. "May I speak with the officer in charge of the … hello?"

The voice on the other end of the line was too busy chortling to answer. Mulder grimaced. Sure, he had a funny name, but it wasn't that funny. "Hello?" he demanded again, more sharply.

"Mulder," the man managed to stop laughing long enough to answer. "Fox Mulder."

"Yeah," Mulder growled.

"I bet you don't remember me," the voice continued, still fighting laughter. "Name's Munch. I arrested you awhile back in Baltimore. Buck naked. Fighting little green men. So, how's the alien business going these days?"

Mulder glared straight ahead, fist tightening on the phone until his knuckles glowed white. "Are you the detective in charge of the Rangely murder?" he barked.

"Nope, that'd be Bayliss, if anybody. Hang on a minute." He could hear Munch calling for Bayliss, still almost - not quite - laughing his ass off. A few moments later a puzzled light baritone answered the phone.

"This is Bayliss. Munch, are you okay?" Off to the side, then back into the mouthpiece, "What can I do for you?"

"This is Agent Mulder with the FBI. I have some questions I'd like to ask you about the Rangely murder." Mulder barely managed to maintain a professional demeanor, when what he really wanted to do was drive down to Baltimore and strangle Detective Munch. He remembered the man, alright.

"You'd know more about that than I would," Bayliss answered. "Your guys took the case away from me."

"This is just a follow up," Mulder lied through his teeth. "Can we meet?"

There was a pause, then a thoughtful, "No. I don't know what you want, but I'm no longer associated with the case. Take it up with your own people. Leave me out of it."

"Will you at least take my number?" He rattled it off, then repeated, "I'd really like to discuss this with you."

"You want me to buck the Feds who took this over? Why? What's in this for you?"

"There's something about the case that caught my interest." It was the best he could do over an open line.

"Take it up with your own boys." There was the sound of someone calling the detective's name, and Bayliss answered before coming back to the call. "Haveta go. Have cases that are still Baltimore PD's to take care of."

The line disconnected, and Mulder stared at the phone in disbelief for a moment. As he was reaching for the button to disconnect and redial, Scully's hand came over his shoulder and caught his wrist.

"Leave it, Mulder." He looked up at her. She'd moved around behind him while he'd been talking to Munch, and had read the file over his shoulder. "This is one fishing trip I think we should skip." He tried to protest and she gestured at the screen. "It's a cold case, no motives, no suspects. It's a military matter, and it is being investigated by military authorities," she pointed at the relevant information running across his screen. "It's not our case, and it's not even an X File. It's a murder. A gory one, but just a murder." She patted his shoulder, then nodded at the hairy blob picture on his desk. "No bigfoot, no ghosts, just a man murdered by a madman. That used to be your job, Mulder, but it's not any more. Let them do their job."

He watched her walk over to her desk and settle back at her computer, then asked with the tiniest whine in his voice, "But if it turns out to be an X File?"

She grinned at him. "In that unlikely event … I'll bring the beer."

 

Four men, two in uniforms, one in a white lab coat, one in a slate gray suit, gathered around an oval table in a small room lined with books. A deceptively elegant setting. Files lay on the table in front of each man, china cups with steaming coffee at their elbows. The drinks were ignored in favor of the papers scattered over the shining surface of the table.

"There are a few possibilities, but the most compelling is the test subject from Project Bird Dog," the first man, a heavy-set Admiral with cold eyes, pointed at a high-resolution black and white photo on the top of the file. The man in the lab coat nodded.

"Based on his past behavior and psychological profile, it would fit."

"Why the hell did you ever let him out?" the second uniformed man, a four star general, growled.

"To see where he would run," the pale man in the suit answered softly. His own eyes were fixed on the photo, but they were seeing things the other three men could not even guess.

"Well, we sure as hell did that. **Now** what do we do?" The general thumped the table with his fist. The suited man looked over at him, unsmiling, and the general subsided.

"We find out where he came from, and why he is doing this. Then, when we have leverage against him, we force him to come to us."

"How?" the admiral asked. "He's a fucking nutcase."

"He may be a sociopath," the scientist responded, "but he is a highly logical and goal oriented one. He has a reason for what he has done. He always does. We must simply discover it and turn it to our own purposes."

"And how the hell are we supposed to do that?" the general growled again, carefully leaning away from the man in the suit, trying to hide his discomfort with the spook.

"Backtrack," the pale man said. Turning and walking to the front of the room, he trailed one finger across a map of the United States spread along the front wall. When the fingertip had wandered the length of the country, it came to rest in a corner of Washington State. "Backtrack."

 

Heading down the steps of the police department in Cascade, Washington, Detective Jim Ellison was acutely aware of the absence of his partner by his side. Sandburg had an article to finish and was going to be late at the University, and Ellison had missed him that day. It had been long, distracting, and difficult, with two new cases that had demanded the most of his heightened senses. With no Guide beside him to help him focus, no lover's scent there to keep him grounded, no warm hand on the small of his back to pull him out of the blood and the gore, he'd nearly zoned twice. He was tired, over-extended, and distracted.

He was running the grocery list through his head, of all things, when the burst of light from the oncoming sedan literally blind-sided him. His sight went off the scale, eyes exploding in a spectrum of red, yellow, green, blue and violet before coalescing into an overpowering white. Hands flew from the steering wheel in a vain attempt to shield his eyes, foot stomping on the brake, belt snapping him back into his seat. He felt the thump as a solid body of metal hit the side of his truck, then the jolt as he went off the side of the road.

Instincts kicked in and his senses of hearing and touch cranked up to compensate for his sudden blindness as he dove for the door and rolled out of the truck cabin. As he was coming up into a defensive position, every still-functional sense reaching out to identify the threat, a lancing pain hit his neck and set his throat and shoulder on fire. Quickly dialing down touch until he could breathe again, his hand came up to barely graze the end of a dart sticking out of the side of his neck. His mind barely had time to realize he'd been drugged, and scream, silently, for Blair, before the world disappeared in a wash of red and he slumped to the ground.

 

"Oh, man, I am so late. I canNOT believe some of the faculty here. Take a journal out before it even hits the stacks, then keep it forever and a day, lay it on a desk somewhere, stuff it in a drawer somewhere, and do the students ever get a chance to actually read it even when it's the only one that addresses the subject and it's absolutely vital to the paper? Oh, no, gotta go round up every TA you can think of who might have some idea whose got it and go on a needle in a haystack search and call in every favor you have left, not that that's too many at this stage in the game, Jim, I'm home! That's funny," Blair Sandburg stopped rattling to himself as he got through the door and realized that not only were none of the lights on in the loft, but it was colder that a well digger's butt in the Klondike and there was no sign of human occupancy. "Oh, shit, I hope you didn't zone, man!"

They'd both been running off their asses lately, and when Jim got tired, Jim lost focus, which meant when Jim was alone, Jim could very well zone out. Blair dumped his backpack by the door, decided to leave his coat and muffler on in deference to the cold inside the building, and went looking for his Sentinel.

Calling softly, then more loudly, he quickly canvassed the entire loft. The bathroom was in its typical spotless post-Jim state, their bed was made, the kitchen was devoid of activity and clean enough to eat off the floor. In short, it looked just like Jim always left it on the way out the door in the morning.

"Funky. I could've sworn he said he'd be home before me tonight. I distinctly remember the words football, fettuccine, and all-night make-out session coming from his lips." Blair stared at the kitchen, unable to shake a feeling that something was radically wrong. "He probably got stuck on a stakeout, or something." He glanced over at the answering machine. No blinking light. Rolling his shoulders, trying to ease the tension, calling himself seven kinds of a fool for over-reacting, he reached for the phone to call the squad room and find out where the hell his partner was. The shrill ring of the bell when his fingertips were an inch away from the handset made him jump a good foot in the air.

"Yes!" he yelped, then calmed down and tried again. "Ellison-Sandburg residence. Hello?"

"Blair." Oh, shit. Simon's voice, the 'professional Captain being gentle with the innocent victim' voice that always creeped Sandburg out.

"What's wrong, Simon?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Jim has disappeared." Ignoring Sandburg's whispered "fuck!" he continued. "We found the truck in an arroyo on the east side of town. It looks like he was on his way home, and was forced off the road. The hood's crumpled, but there is no blood, anywhere, so I don't think he was hurt."

"Who?" Blair managed to croak out past a throat that felt like the Sahara on a dry day.

"We don't know yet. We're going to find him, Blair. We will."

Somehow, the steely determination in Simon's voice didn't make him feel any better. He didn't remember hanging up, or moving, but he found himself sitting on the couch, staring out over the nightscape of Cascade. Just sitting, staring, wishing not for the first time that he had Sentinel abilities himself, and could see through that darkness to where his partner was being held. He put his fist over his mouth and muffled the scream of pure anger that bubbled out past his clenched teeth.

He fucking hated being helpless.

Reaching for the phone again, he thumbed through his version of a little black book, now reserved for friends since he'd hooked up with Jim. Running a finger down the K page, he found a number, punched in the numbers, and curled up into the corner of the couch, counting rings. On the fifth ring, it answered.

"Hello?" Not even sleepy. He wasn't sure his friend ever slept.

"Jack? This is Blair."

"You sound terrible, Blair." The concerned tones calmed him, centered him. He could freak out later. First, he had to find Jim.

"Something's happened. Jim's been kidnapped. I think … I think it has something to do with Brackett." The nearly silent gasp on the other end of the line echoed his own reaction. "Can you help me? Help me find Jim?"

"I'll do everything I can, Blair. Can you come over? Now? If Brackett had anything to do with this you could be in extreme danger."

"Yeah." That, he knew. Boy, did he ever. "Half an hour?"

"I'll be here." In the background, Blair could hear the tapping of keys. The mundane sound of Kelso on the case cheered him up more than he would have expected.

"Thanks, man," he offered sincerely. "Be there ASAP."

Simon would do his best, and if the kidnappers were enemies of Jim, the cop, Simon would find them. But if it was Brackett, then Kelso would find the bastard. This time, Blair might just kill the son of a bitch himself, Sentinel or no Sentinel.

Several hours and six pots of tea later, Jack and Blair could barely keep their eyes open. All they hit were dead ends and false leads. Kelso was beginning to believe that, for once, Brackett might not actually be behind the crime. Scanning through personnel reports from his Agency source in a last ditch effort to find any sort of link to follow, he suddenly straightened in his wheelchair and stared, hard, at the screen.

"What the …"

Blair leaned forward in response to Jack's agitation. "What'd you find, man?"

"Not Brackett," Kelso responded absently, "but a connection, I think." Pointing to a name on the screen, he added, "Arlen Rangely was the medical researcher in charge of Brackett's interrogation after his capture. He's the one who released Brackett from Agency custody on agreement that Brackett would work for them -- something about a Project Bird Dog, using humans with special abilities as advance scouts in infiltration situations."

Blair stared at him. God. That sounded like … "They're using …" Sentinels. They had force-bloomed a Sentinel with Brackett, then let him run to see what would happen. They'd released fully enhanced senses in a sociopath then turned him loose on society so they could watch the results. "Those bastards." Kelso looked at him strangely, but Blair didn't explain. "What about Rangely?"

"He was murdered. Tortured to death, actually. From the methodology described in the report, it sounds like the sort of thing that Brackett was adept at, actually. The Baltimore PD picked it up but the FBI took it out of their hands and it ended up in a dead file at the CIA."

"What's this got to do with Jim?" Blair asked, eyes scanning over the report on Jack's screen.

"Nothing, that's the point. Rangely was murdered last week. In Baltimore. Probably by Brackett, with this MO. So, while it's not conclusive, my instincts are telling me Brackett's involved with something in DC, something having to do with his time in custody with the Agency. I don't think he's gone after Jim." He looked solemnly up at Blair. "I think the CIA has."

"Shit. Oh, shit." Blair stared at the screen, more than a little horrified by the possibilities.

"Yeah," Kelso agreed softly. "I'll keep digging. See what I can find."

"Thanks, Jack." Blair gripped his shoulder gently, then glanced back at the screen. "So will I." Kelso looked askance at him and he tapped the screen with the tip of his index finger. "I know the homicide cop who took the call."

"Be careful, Blair," Kelso warned him. "These guys play for keeps, and they don't care who gets hurt in the process."

Sandburg smiled grimly at him. "They have my partner. I'll be careful, Jack. But I'm going to get him back."

 

Staring into the depths of a glass of cabernet sauvignon liberated from the Waterfront's stock, Tim ignored the congressional posturing on CNN and mused about life, loneliness, and the reality of nothingness. He'd been doing that a lot, ever since he'd been shot. He'd do the same thing again if he had to, of course, as much as it had hurt and as scared as he'd been. Frank had been his partner and was still his friend. And if taking a couple bullets, dying and fighting back to life, and being frightened out of his mind were the price he had to pay for saving his partner, well, so be it.

It was something he couldn't begin to explain, and from the reactions of his coworkers, they weren't in any mood to hear it if he tried. A fresh coat of paint, a shuffle of desks, a new detective in and an old one out, didn't cover up the reality of what had happened. Denying it would not make it so. He'd seen three uniformed cops die. He'd gone out on a hunt with his fellow detectives, and in the course of that hunt he had been severely, almost mortally, wounded. He had seen death in Frank Pembleton's eyes, felt life in the clutch of his hand as he was fighting to stay together. Recognized, and understood, when the component elements of his being tried to fragment, refracting like light through a prism, breaking into their component parts and sundering the wholeness that made up Tim Bayliss into elemental parts that rendered him into nothingness.

Nothing really was as real as nothing. And when it came down to it, he was alone, in that nothingness.

The phone rang, shattering the contemplative mood and nearly causing him to upend his wineglass all over his shirt front. Shaking the cobwebs out of his head, he lurched sideways and picked up the phone.

"Bayliss."

"Tim?" The voice was vaguely familiar, and it brought an image of warmth with it, but he couldn't pin it down. "This is Blair. Blair Sandburg. From Cascade. Washington. We met last year when you were out on vacation. You gave me your business card when you were, uhm, proving that you were a cop. Do you remember?"

Oh, christ, did he. Bayliss looked down at the erection that was pushing up behind his zipper, and couldn't restrain the smile pulling at his mouth. "Blair. Hi. Yeah, I remember you. How are you?" And why are you calling me? The question was apparent in his tone, but it was a welcoming tone, a warm memory.

"Well, this is a little odd, I know. But I was wondering if I could ask for your help." Tim straightened up on the couch. Blair sounded stretched thin. "You, uhm, remember the guy who, uh, came in on us?" Just a hint of embarrassment in the question, but Tim grinned.

"Yeah. Lucky man."

There was an answering smile in Blair's voice. "I'm the lucky one, man. Or at least, I was." The smile disappeared, and the strain was back. "Jim's disappeared, and I think it's related to a murder you were working on. A scientist, named Rangely."

Tim tilted his head back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes, one hand coming up to rub at the tension lines furrowing his brow between his eyes. "I remember it. But I don't have that case any more, Blair. The Feds took it."

"I know," came the reply. "But I think there's more going on here than just somebody whacking a researcher, Tim. I need your help. I'd like to fly out and talk with you."

Bayliss shrugged, then answered, "Sure, if you want. But I don't think it'll do any good. Are there any leads in Jim's … disappearance?"

"No." A world of determination and fear on one syllable. "But if this pans out … I need to know."

"Tell me when and where and I'll come pick you up at the airport," Bayliss offered. "But Blair -- it's out of my hands. And given the total lack of any leads on it, I'm just as glad it is. If there is anything I can do to help, I'll try. But I really don't know-"

"I have to try, man. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay. Call me with the flight details. Bye." He carefully hung up the phone, picked up his wine glass, and finished it in one swallow. This one was getting weirder and weirder all the time. For a case that had been taken out of his hands before it even got cold, a hell of a lot of people seemed to be interested in it.

 

Captain Simon Banks stared at a tiny figurine of a Black angel strumming a harp and wondered why the hell he hadn't become a teacher like his mother had wanted. He'd been up for almost sixty hours straight, his eyes had stopped focusing ten or so hours before, and his brain was spinning in circles. One of his best friends had disappeared off the face of the earth, and not a single thing he could think of to do had gotten them any closer to finding Jim Ellison.

To top it off, Sandburg hadn't been driving him loopy. When Sandburg acted out of character, it was time to worry.

The object of his thoughts dragged in the door, and Simon winced in sympathy. Blair looked like he hadn't slept either. Forestalling what he thought was going to come out of the young man's mouth, he offered, "Not yet, but every man I can scrape up is looking."

Sandburg smiled tiredly at him. "I know, Simon." He blinked. Not what he'd been expecting.

"I need you to stay settled down, Sandburg," Simon forged ahead. "You're personally involved, and you're not a cop, and besides, we don't know yet if the nutcase who did this might be after you as well. I've had a man shadowing you since the kidnapping, but so far no one seems to be making a move. That doesn't mean you're safe, though. I want to put you in protective custody until we get Jim back." He braced himself for an argument.

"Not necessary, Simon. I'm going to see a friend on the East Coast, try to get my head together. If I stay here, I'm just going to get in the way, and I'm a target. Out there, I should be far enough away from the action to stay out of your way and not end up on the menu. Plus, the friend's a cop, so I won't be without protection. Here's the number."

He placed a post-it note with a Maryland telephone number on it in the middle of Simon's blotter. Simon looked at it in shock. Leaving? Ellison goes missing and Sandburg takes a vacation? This was _really_ not what he was expecting. But the kid did have a point. "Does this friend know the situation?"

Sandburg nodded impatiently. "Yeah, he knows all about it. Listen, I gotta go. Got a flight to catch. Call me if you find out anything?" He had one foot out the door.

"When. Not if." He looked sternly at the kid, then nodded. Sandburg gave him a weak attempt at a smile and strode out the door, minus his usual bounce. Too tired to figure it out, too worried about his friend to have any energy left to put toward trying to figure it out, and too used to not being able to figure Sandburg out no matter how hard he tried, Simon gave it up and reached for the coffee pot. There were still those lists of recent parolees to go through; maybe he'd get lucky.

 

Straggling out at the end of the line of people off the 747, Blair struck Tim as being just as beautiful as he'd been the first, and only, time he'd seen him. The lines of fatigue and stress around his eyes and mouth were deeper, and there were shadows in the dark blue eyes, but the full mouth was just as inviting, and the strong arms pulled him into just as warm a hug. He laid his cheek atop the curly head and hugged back. So much energy. So much warmth.

"Hey, Blair. Welcome to Baltimore. Flight okay? You hungry?" Can I pull you into a dark corner somewhere and kiss you 'til neither one of us can breathe? Yeah, the attraction was still there.

"Thanks for meeting me, Tim." Another squeeze and the hug was reluctantly released. "I'm not real hungry. Can we … go somewhere and talk?"

Tim looked down into the serious eyes, and reined in his libido. They had serious business to see to, whether he could help or not, and Blair was in no shape for seduction. He smiled gently down at the worried face, and slung an arm around the broad shoulders. "Sure, Blair. Let's go back to my place, and you can tell me all about it."

A couple hours later, Tim was almost regretting the invitation. He'd heard an amazing, bizarre story of rogue CIA agents and stolen planes, vendettas, kidnappings, strange abilities, government conspiracies, and sociopathic stalkers that would have had him wondering what kind of mushrooms Blair was putting in his salad if not for the complete seriousness of the younger man's recitation. He wasn't sure what to believe, but he could see that Blair believed it. Sitting side by side on the couch, hands wrapped around mugs of hot tea, feet propped up on the coffee table, he watched the shadows overtake the room and entered a world that redefined weird.

When Blair had run down, Tim stared at him for a long moment. "Can you help me, man?" Blair wasn't above begging, and Tim took a deep breath.

"I don't think so." The desperation in those azure eyes hurried him on. "But I think there's somebody with the Feds who might be able to." He hooked his finger into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. "An FBI agent called after the Feds took the case, said he wanted to meet me about it. I put him off -- didn't have the files anymore, and I had too many bodies on my plate to worry with one that wasn't. Maybe he can help us out." He reached across Blair's chest for the phone, trying not to get distracted by the warmth of Blair's skin.

"Cool, man. Thanks **so** much." Blair smiled at him, and Tim suddenly felt ten feet tall.

 

He'd hit the labs directly after his abortive attempt to obtain information from the late Doctor Rangely, but they'd been a waste of effort. All the records he could find pertained solely to his own torture. There was nothing, anywhere, about Sandburg, or even Ellison, and nothing to point toward any possible fill-in for the young Guide. It was more than a little frustrating. Then, the day after Rangely was found, there was a flurry of activity and security at the research station clamped tighter than a professional virgin's chastity belt. Unable to crack the net of electronic and human surveillance, he switched gears and tried the Feds. They'd taken the case from the police, so there had to be some sort of connection between the Agency and the FBI.

It led him nowhere.

Resolving to settle back and wait, watch, and take his chance when he found it, he assuaged his boredom by following the homicide cop who'd taken the original call. Detective Timothy Bayliss, tall, gangly, bespeckled and intense, was an interesting man to study. He didn't know anything, of course, just had the bad luck to get caught up in a situation beyond his understanding, and had the sense to give it up when he had no choice. But there was something about the man that held Brackett's attention. He tapped the detective's telephone, just to listen to the sound of his voice. There was something there, something that drew him, and he was intrigued by the sense that he was both completely relaxed and missing something important. Then, the second night of his voyeuristic eavesdropping, a familiar voice came over the line and he started, sitting bolt upright, listening as hard as he could.

Tim Bayliss knew Blair Sandburg. Blair was coming to Baltimore.

Without Jim Ellison.

Brackett smiled. This situation had definite possibilities.

He followed Bayliss to the airport, drinking in the sight of the man who should have been his guide. To his internal surprise, Blair didn't capture all of his attention, as he had the last few times he'd seen him. While the sight and scent of Blair made his body hum, the light rumble of Bayliss' voice seemed to pull at him, over-riding even the usually soothing baritone from Sandburg. Musing on this, he trailed them to Bayliss' apartment and settled in to a handy corner to do some up-close eavesdropping. Overlaying his vision with his hearing, he focused in on the two men, sitting close as lovers on the couch.

Interesting. Blair was willing to tell someone outside of Cascade PD and his dissertation committee about Sentinels. Very interesting.

He'd never considered himself a sociopath. He had his own code of conduct. It just didn't happen to coincide with the standards taught in grade school to the ankle biters of America.

Even more interesting. Ellison was missing. Blair fell silent, turning pleading eyes on Bayliss, and to his mild shock, Brackett realized he was more interested in listening to Bayliss talk than in staring at Blair. Something very strange was going on. He centered all his attention on the two men, trying to figure out his unexpected attraction to Bayliss and his equally unexpected, if still weak, immunity to Sandburg's pull. As more of his energy was focused on his sight and hearing, directed through the small slit in the blinds at Bayliss' window, he didn't hear the whoosh of displaced air until after the dart impacted his back. Twisting instinctively, clawing at his shirt to get at the dart, he felt his hands go numb as his eyesight faded out to deep gray. He didn't feel a thing as the world tilted and he hit the ground.

 

Sight had been the final sense to come back on line after Jim regained consciousness. Smell had been first. Scenting the air, he'd identified antiseptic wash, saline, urine, sweat, bleach and blood. He could taste the coppery tang of blood along his tongue, too, where he'd apparently bitten himself, and an aftertaste of cloying sweetness from whatever it was they'd used to drug him. Then touch had snapped in, and he'd nearly screamed at the clamp of shackles on his wrists and the cold tile against his bare skin until he'd managed to wrestle the dials down to a bearable level. Hearing had filtered back after that, and his ears were blanketed with the hum of computers, and the wet cotton stuffed sensation of a white noise generator. Sight finally trickled in, first as hazy images, gradually solidifying into white on white on white -- white bench, white padded wall, white floor, white door. White skin and steel manacles. Naked, colder than sin, hungry and so angry he couldn't stop shaking, he waited for someone, anyone to come in that damned door so he could rip their heads off. With his teeth.

There was a disturbance out in the hall beyond the door, and he quickly dialed his senses down, not wanting to get caught with another burst of light or sound. The door was opened and another body was shoved inside. Ignoring Jim's presence, the two men hauling the body between them went to work. Limp arms were held up to shackles matching Jim's on the other side of the small room, and ankles were dragged into place and locked down. Then the captors, still without speaking a word or acknowledging Ellison in any way, left the room and locked the door behind them. When Jim caught a clear look at his fellow captive, the rage boiled out in an incoherent howl.

Brackett.

The son of a bitch.

Jim went ballistic, all logic flying out the window with the sheer instinctual need to kill Lee Brackett. The chains snapped tight, jolting him to a halt inches from his enemy. He strained at the chains until his muscles revolted, then slumped against the wall and watched, unable to do anything else. As the shaggy blond head lifted and consciousness returned to the other Sentinel, the temperature in the room shifted as well. An eerie growl emanated from Jim's throat, and echoed throughout the room.

The black jaguar prowled between the two men, hissing, claws flexing. The threat was immediate, and it responded with flattened ears, thrashing tail, bared fangs. A groggy, shaky cougar attempted to stand against it, but staggered to the side. The panther leapt, and the cougar rolled to catch it, claws extending, jaws snapping. Brackett's head snapped up, and his dark eyes locked with Ellison's. The challenge arced from crystal blue to deep brown, and was returned with hate-fueled interest.

A clang at the door interrupted the fight for dominance, and the jaguar and cougar separated, each growling at the other. The Sentinels' attention was diverted to the small man in a white lab coat who entered the room, smiling at them both.

"This should be very interesting, gentlemen. Instinctive antipathy aside, I do believe you will both be excellent test subjects." He walked over to stand in front of Jim, carefully keeping out of range of either man. "There is a connection between you and our Mr. Brackett, Detective Ellison. I do not know what it may be that keeps drawing him to you. But over the course of the next several days, I intend to find out. I fear it will not be a pleasant experience. But it is in the interests of science. And it should be very interesting indeed."

Jim froze in place. They didn't know he was a Sentinel. They just knew … that Brackett had stalked him. They didn't know why. In a heartbeat, he turned all his dials as low as he could get them and still function, and did his best to lock the dials in place. If there was any way he could help it, they wouldn't find out that he was a Sentinel. It might be the only chance he had of getting out.

The nightmare began almost immediately. He and Brackett were chained together, hands behind their backs. For the next several hours they were placed in a sensory deprivation chamber, first together, then separately. At the point when he seriously began to believe he was going to lose his mind completely, he was pulled from the chamber and put in an overload situation that made him damned thankful for Sandburg's never-ending tests. Lights strobed him, sounds blared out at him, constantly. Hot air buffeted him, sharp scents nearly imploded his sinuses. Brackett was tossed in with him, and very soon he saw the effects of the concentrated sensory bombardment on the other Sentinel. Brackett was curled up in a ball, whimpering, banging his head against the padded wall, arms thrown over his head in a useless attempt to stop the pain.

Jim began to lose his control after a few hours of constant overpowering input, and instinctively reached out to find an anchor. There was a heartbeat there, not the one he was used to using, not one he recognized, too fast, too erratic, too frantic. But it was outside himself, and it was stable enough to latch onto. Over the course of the next several hours, it kept him concentrated, kept him from betraying the fact that he was a Sentinel. Kept him sane.

He nearly puked when he came to back in the cell and recognized Lee Brackett's heartbeat.

The other man was slumped against the wall, staring at him. Behind the exhaustion, Jim didn't see the hatred he expected. Instead there was calculation and desperation. He saw Brackett's lips move, but didn't hear anything. Eventually, exasperation joined the other emotions, and he reluctantly dialed up his hearing.

"-you listening? May be the only chance we have."

He gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Brackett acknowledged it with a slow blink, then started whispering, Sentinel-soft, again.

"The only way we're going to get out of this is by working together."

Jim stared at him for a long moment. When Brackett's mouth opened slightly, as he got ready to argue the point, Jim finally spoke, equally softly. "I agree. On the proviso that I kill you when we get out of here."

Brackett bared his teeth at him. "You can try." Then he lost the snarling caricature of a smile. "Later."

Jim nodded. Dialing up his senses, very carefully, he began to scope out as much of the situation as he could, relying on his greater range and control to get past the safeguards the scientists had put up to cage Brackett's less extensive gifts. Speaking softly, the two Sentinels began to plan.

 

Bayliss had only _thought_ he was on a weird trip. After dinner with Special Agent Fox Mulder and his skeptical other half, Special Agent Dana Scully, he was convinced somebody'd slipped acid in his coffee.

He stared around the shadowy maze of electronics and black boxes in the tiny room they'd all trooped off to, trying not to listen to the three stooges Mulder had introduced to him as the Lone Gunmen. One looked like a surfer nerd, one a frog, and one an accountant. To hear them talk, the whole impeachment fiasco was a manifestation of a conspiracy reaching back to the days when J. Edgar Hoover wore silk stockings and tried to ambush the civil rights movement. And he'd thought _Munch_ was paranoid.

Blair was in a corner talking on a 'secure line' -- which looked like a telephone attached to electronic life support in a metal suitcase -- to a man called Kelso who was some kind of CIA retiree. Mulder was discussing supernatural powers in the natural world with Scully, who was shooting down nearly every argument he made almost before he got the words out of his mouth.

Bayliss felt a very long way from home. He'd kill for a pair of ruby slippers.

By the time he was ready to raise his hand and ask for a ride back to Baltimore, the accountant yelped. A restrained yelp, but definitely a yelp. "Got it!"

Blair handed the phone over to the frog-like man, and an incomprehensible dialog about megahertz and black spots started up. Tim shut his mouth. It was getting weirder by the minute. He glanced over at Blair, and was taken aback by the desperation in the younger man's face. All at once, the cartoonish aspects of the evening lost their edge, and he was reminded of the fact that there was a life on the line here. A fellow cop. A good man, according to Blair, and his partner. He felt a surge of emotion at his own dedication to his previous partner, and the lengths he had been willing to go to protect him. And he hadn't even been sleeping with Frank. He took a deep breath, reached out a hand to squeeze Blair's shoulder, and gave him a reassuring smile.

"We'll find him, Blair." He put as much confidence into the words as he could, and was rewarded by a beaming if somewhat shaky smile.

"We just did," Mulder's quiet voice cut across the room. Tim turned back to see the surfer guy handing a variety of pieces of electronic equipment to the two FBI agents. He patted his gun with one hand, patted Blair's back with the other, and followed the little party of rescuers out the door.

 

The initial breakout was the easy part. Speaking in tones that were so low as to practically be subliminal, Ellison and Brackett put covert and black ops training to good use. The first half dozen guards fell like tin cans at target practice in the back forty, only a hell of a lot more quietly. They caught the seventh goon as he was reaching for the alarm, snapping his neck an instant before he could reach the handle.

On the opposite side of that particular patch of woods in Allegany County, Mulder took point, with Scully on the laptop, disabling electronic perimeter alarms as they went. Bayliss cut wire, Sandburg slid into places only Scully could follow, and in less time than even they had expected, they were inside the compound grounds. Less than a hundred feet from the building where they believed the prisoners to be held, all hell broke loose.

Two figures broke into the clearing outside the compound just as huge floodlights lit up the entire area. An alarm shrieked through the stillness of the night, causing an unexpected zig zag in the fugitives' running pattern that had Sandburg screaming for his partner. He jolted forward unexpectedly, breaking cover, and Bayliss cursed under his breath and followed. In an attempt to distract the following guards, Mulder broke the opposite direction and fired his Sig Sauer over the heads of the advancing black-clad thugs. Scully scrambled to cover him.

From behind the mob converging on them, a frantic male voice came over a loudspeaker, exhorting the soldiers, or whoever the hell they were, to take the prisoners alive. Since the prisoners had no such compunctions, even though they were outnumbered, they were gradually beating back the guards. The fight quickly degenerated into a hand to hand melee, as Ellison and Brackett fought with fists, kicks, head butts and teeth, and Blair threw himself into the fray to protect his Sentinel. Bayliss cracked a thug over the head before he could shoot Sandburg, then Mulder took out two more before they could kill Bayliss. Scully kicked in the kneecap of one who was about to bushwhack Ellison. Scully and Mulder were yelling something about the FBI, and freeze. Bayliss found himself hollering "Baltimore PD! Drop your weapons!" even as he realized that it was a stupid, and ultimately useless, thing to scream. But training will out.

The boiling mass of goons in black was thinning nicely, when Bayliss decided he'd had about enough. Pulling two thugs off the other fugitive by brute force, he was shocked into immobility by the look on the man's face. For an insane moment he actually thought the man was going to kiss him, then the stranger shook his head, hard, pulled Tim to the side, and kicked out at a soldier who had nearly shot Bayliss, catching the man in the throat with the side of his foot. The thug went down with a wet gurgle. The hard grip eased, Bayliss tried to stammer out thanks, and the other man smiled. Then Tim heard Blair scream in rage, and turned to bail out his friend.

Before he got there, Ellison stiff-armed the man who'd gotten Sandburg in a neck-lock, successfully breaking both the hold and the man's arm. He yanked Blair out of the way and kicked out in much the same manner Tim's rescuer had, catching the thug in the side of the head and snapping his spine. Then with a roar, he scooped Blair up and headed for the woods. Mulder got off a few more shots, and with Bayliss and Mulder guarding the rear, Ellison, Scully and Sandburg went deep into the woods.

Scrambling through the brush as fast as they could, they made it to Mulder's borrowed Rover and squealed away through the trees, much faster than Bayliss would have considered safe. Curled up into as small a ball as a six foot four inch man could make, Tim wondered if he'd managed to survive the rescue mission only to die from Mulder's driving. Before he could make up his mind which would have been worse, they cleared the woods and hit the highway.

Looking up, he saw Scully winding a bandage around a bloody cut on Blair's forearm. Blair was staring at Ellison, who was staring back the way they'd come, his features like granite. Mulder was looking front, back, and sideways all at once, foot pushing the accelerator all the way to the floor. Tim peered around the side of Mulder's shoulder and raised an eyebrow at the speedometer. He hadn't known vehicles built for climbing mountains and fording streams could do a hundred and twenty flat out.

Sinking back into the seat, he heard Blair ask quietly, "Jim? You okay, man?"

After a moment, Ellison relaxed a fraction and settled closer to his partner. "Yeah, Chief. But … he got away."

That's when Bayliss realized that the man who had saved his life had not made it to the Rover. He wondered why that should upset him as much as it did, since, if what Blair had told him was true, the guy was a killer and a nutcase, who carved people up for fun. Too tired, too wired, and too busy trying not to get carsick to think about it, he closed his eyes, leaned against the jolting seat, and tried to think about nothing at all.

Nothingness had its attractions, after all.

 

After a quick stop to drop off an exhausted Tim Bayliss, Jim, Blair and Scully decided to unwind and debrief at Mulder's apartment. Camped out around the small living room, Mulder and Jim sprawled on the couch, Blair on the floor with his back leaning against Jim's leg, Scully in the single chair, they devoured two large pizzas and several bottles of beer.

Taking on the covert military establishment could work up quite an appetite.

Ellison hadn't been particularly forthcoming about his experiences while locked up with Brackett, but Blair knew he'd get the rest of the story when they were back home. He was just impressed that Jim had managed to control his hatred of the other man long enough to work with him to escape. Jim just nodded, anchored his heartbeat to his Guide's, and finally relaxed.

"What I don't understand is, why? Why Brackett? What were they after? And why did they kidnap you? What's your connection to Brackett? And how did they think they could profit from it? What did they think to gain?"

Mulder's litany of questions washed over them, and Jim looked to Blair for guidance in answering or avoiding them. Blair bit his lip, then leaned closer to Jim to reassure him. "Off the record?"

"Nobody ever reads our records, Blair," Scully informed him dryly. Mulder shot her a mock-dirty look.

"Sure they do, Scully. They just don't believe them." He turned to Jim and Blair. "Off the record if you want. But I can assure you, there are stranger things in the X Files than anything you can tell me."

"Jim's been a target before," Blair said softly. "I don't want him to be a target again, just because the wrong person gets hold of one of your files."

Mulder stared at him for long moment, then took a deep swallow from his bottle of beer. "Okay. Strictly off the record. What can you answer?"

"All of it." And, to some extent, he did. He touched on Jim's heightened senses, and Brackett's, and why those senses would make them vulnerable to being unwilling test subjects by those who would try to twist their genetic gifts into a weapon. He recapped their history with the rogue agent, and how he believed the long months of isolation and torture had triggered Brackett's senses, in much the same way the year and a half of isolation and hardship in Peru had triggered Ellison's. By the time he finished, both Mulder and Scully were silent, considering the ramifications.

"He's dangerous. And he is active in the area." Jim summed it up in a few words. "He could be a threat to you both." The agents nodded, sharing a look, then Mulder spoke up.

"Now that we know he's here, and what he can do, we'll keep a watch for him. We've encountered even stranger things, things no one else would believe, and lived through it. One rogue Sentinel won't be too hard to handle."

"Stranger things?" Sandburg asked, eyes rounding as he leaned forward. Jim sighed, then grinned at his partner's insatiable curiosity.

"Much," Scully agreed, then gave the floor over to Mulder. For the next few hours, Sandburg and Mulder bonded over tales of flukemen, liver eating mutants, vampires and shapeshifters. Ellison and Scully sat back and watched their partners.

"You believe this stuff?" he finally had to ask her, while Blair was busily telling Mulder all about a large, hairy Sasquatch type being he'd seen on a field expedition to a rural area in China. She smiled in response, but there were shadows behind the smile.

"I'm not sure what to believe anymore, Jim. Mulder believes, and sometimes, with what I've seen, I find I have to. But I'm reserving judgement." She nodded her head slightly, eyes lighting with affection as she looked over at her partner. "Somebody's got to be the skeptic."

Mulder caught the tail end of the comment, and smiled back at his partner. "And somebody's got to be the believer."

 

Alone again, too tired to move and too wound up to sleep, Bayliss stared at the ceiling in his bedroom and wondered if anyone would ever believe what he'd been through that night. Not that he could tell anybody.

"They'd lock me up in the loony bin," he finally decided, shaking his head at his own mental meandering.

"No." A soft voice that slid over his ears like satin over his skin came out of the darkness. "I wouldn't let them.”

He jolted up, reached for his gun, ready to defend himself -- or at least, he tried to do all those things. What he actually did was turn directly into the warm bulk of a man almost as tall as he was and both broader and stronger, pinning him in place against the mattress. He tried to fight, to squirm away, anything, but the stranger held him fast. Breathing hard, he opened his mouth to ask who the hell he was, but in the dim light in the room he recognized him.

The other fugitive. The man who'd saved his life earlier that evening.

The sociopathic killer.

Macho social expectations of manhood be damned, Bayliss opened his mouth to scream his head off, and nearly choked on a sudden mouthful of tongue. He pulled in as much oxygen through his nose as he could in a desperate effort not to suffocate, and moaned as loud as he could into the other man's mouth in protest. To his mingled shock and horror, he could feel himself responding to the heat of the body pressed so intimately into his. Timmy, my boy, he thought half hysterically, you really need to get laid more often.

When the lips finally unglued themselves from his and the invading tongue stopped trying to take out his tonsils, he dragged in a ragged breath. His eyes opened, without his being aware that he'd ever closed them, and his body shuddered. He refused to consider that arousal was just as strong a motivation behind the shaking in his limbs as adrenaline.

"Hello, Detective Bayliss," the madman laying on top of him smiled down at him. "I'm Lee." He bent down and fastened his teeth into the side of Tim's neck. Bayliss tried to scream, or at least he thought he did. The only sound that escaped was a breathy whimper. The nutcase raised his head again, dipped it to lick across the bite Tim could feel bruising already, then reared back to stare down at him with satisfaction. "You're mine."

Tim opened his mouth to protest and found himself thoroughly kissed again. By the time he could draw another clear breath, he'd forgotten what he was supposed to be protesting. "Do you mind if I call you Tim?" He started to shake his head, then amended it to a shaky nod, before stilling all movement to simply stare up at his captor, completely confused. "Thanks for the rescue."

"You … " his voice didn't sound like his voice. It was never that winded. Sounded like he'd run a marathon. "You saved my life."

"So, we owe each other," Lee grinned down at him, a sharp, feral expression. "Guess that means I'm yours, too." His hands were busy, roving under Tim's tee shirt, dipping below the waistband of his sweatpants. When long fingers wrapped around an erection Tim didn't remember getting, he started to panic. "Talk to me."

Talk to him? **_Talk_** to him?? Shoot him, take him into custody, arrest him, call the Feds and have them cart him off -- these were all viable alternatives. Lie here while the guy felt him up and talk to him? _Not_ in the realm of the possible. "Who are you?" Okay, that would work. Monosyllables were about all his brain would manage, since ninety eight per cent of his blood was rushing to his groin, and the only thing he could think about was how amazingly good that hand felt moving up and down his cock. "What do you want? You're under arrest. What are you doing here? Are you nuts? Oh, holy mother of god." The last groaned phrase was in direct response to the hand that dove between his thighs and did things to his testicles that could get them both arrested. They were the last coherent words he was to say for some time.

"On second thought," the crazy man doing crazier things to him whispered in his ear, "Just lie there and moan."

Good. That, he could do. That was about all he could do. Well, that, and squirm a lot.

Bayliss had very little experience with men. Some bad, stemming from childhood abuse, some good, with a recent, tentative, experimental relationship with a man he'd met on a case. Nothing in any of his previous experiences prepared him for what Lee Brackett did to him. The man seemed to be able to map his nerve endings, dragging depths of reaction from him that he'd never felt with anyone. He was vaguely aware of a burning sensation at the back of his neck as his shirt was ripped away, even less aware of a slight cool breeze over his thighs as the rest of his clothing was stripped from him. But all he could concentrate on, the totality of his sensual input, was the combination of hands, mouth, body and voice that swamped his mind and turned his body inside out.

From somewhere outside himself, he heard a vaguely familiar voice, crying out softly, moaning continuously. There were words in there, but they didn't make any sense. The only constant in the universe was the edge he was brought to time and again, with overpowering touches, firm bites, strong movements, only to be gentled down before the cycle started to build all over again. He didn't think he could take much more, was dimly aware that he was lying with his legs spread, arms flung out, fists clenched in the sheets, back arched, head digging into the pillow as he begged for something, if only he could remember what. The pressure, and the pleasure, finally crested, and he flew apart in a shattering of light and sound, surrounded and penetrated and held by strength that linked with him in a way he had never imagined.

When the world finally pieced itself back together, he was curled up against a sweaty body, hands petting his hair and running over his shoulders, his own arms draped bonelessly around a lean waist, head flopped against a broad chest, soft hair tickling his cheek, steady strong rhythm beating under his ear. Words were rumbling softly over his head, and he fought to concentrate, to find the energy to listen.

"I'll see you again. Soon. Don't tell anyone about us." The fingers stroked across his shoulders again, running along the line of his spine to pet his nape. "They wouldn't understand."

No wonder. Neither did Tim. Long fingers cupped his chin, and turned his face up to his seducer. All his cop instincts were screaming at Tim to clobber the guy, cuff him, grab the phone and call it in. Something, not just the liquefication of his bones, wouldn't let him do it. So he lay there and stared back into those dark eyes. One finger ran gently over the bow of his top lip, and Lee smiled.

"My Guide." Then the hand slipped lower, tightened over his throat, and closed gently. By the time Bayliss figured out what Brackett was doing, he was already slipping into unconsciousness.

Some time later, he woke with a slight headache, a sore throat, and an even sorer backside. Staggering into the bathroom, he stood under the shower until the water ran cold, then stood at the sink and stared into the mirror. Evidence of Brackett's visit was painted in vivid finger bruises and bite marks all over his chest, down around his groin, and as he turned and verified, all over his back and buttocks. He shivered, pulled his robe from the hook on the back of the door, and huddled into it. Easing onto the side of the bed, he stared at the telephone.

He really should report this.

To somebody.

It was his duty.

On the other hand, while there was nothing quite as real as nothing, there was nothing quite as crazy as this reality.

He reached for the phone with one hand, reached for his wallet with the other, and dialed a number.

 

Staring at his fish running tag team circles in the tank at four thirty in the morning was not unusual for Mulder. Insomnia was his constant companion, and after the things he'd heard that night, he really hadn't expected to get much sleep. Imagine, a mythological creature like a Sentinel in the modern world, and he couldn't even open an X File on it. He knew what it was like to be hunted, and he wouldn't bring that down on Jim Ellison's head if there was any way he could avoid it. Or Blair Sandburg's.

He smiled at the thought of the partners. Two such dissimilar men, so completely connected. Sort of like himself and Scully, only with sex added to the mix. He was deep in thought on the ramifications of partnerships when the phone rang. Half expecting a "Mulder, it's me" he was somewhat startled to hear Tim Bayliss' raspy voice.

"You okay, Bayliss? You sound a little rough."

"Been screaming." It sounded like it. Then what he'd heard hit Mulder, who sat upright and stared at the phone.

"Screaming? **Are** you okay?" Damn. He knew he shouldn't've left the homicide cop alone. God only knows what kind of revenge the soldiers in black could have taken.

"Had a visitor. Brackett."

Okay, maybe not the thugs. But still, a lone sociopath could be a very dangerous thing. "What did he do?" Mentally, he was already summoning Scully and her little black bag.

"Fucked me raw."

Oh. Then again, maybe not. "Come again?"

"Don't think I could if I tried." Mulder blinked, and Bayliss went on. "I dunno what's going on. I know I should turn him in. I mean, he's a killer, right? A nutcase. Goes around skinning people and breaking bones and psycho crap like that."

There was a long silence, then Mulder prompted him gently, "But?"

"But I couldn't do it. Even though I'm a cop. And he's a killer. Maybe I'm just nuts, myself." Bayliss sounded completely confused, and not a little depressed.

"Actually, I don't think you are." Mulder looked up at a muted sound from the doorway. "I know what it's like to think your duty is to turn a man in, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Tim?"

"Yeah?" He also sounded exhausted.

"Get some sleep. Don't think about it unless you have to. And … call me when he comes back."

"If?"

"No. When." He looked again at the doorway. "Trust me on this one."

"'Kay. Night. And Mulder?"

"Mmhm?"

"Thanks." There was a click, then the dial tone in his ear. He slowly cradled the handset and swallowed, staring into the shadows by the doorway. The figure there slowly moved forward, and he started to shake, just a tremor, deep in his muscles.

God, yes. He knew precisely what it was like.

Green eyes met his, and he slumped back on the couch even as he held out a hand in helpless welcome. Krycek's wiry fingers came out to wind around his, and the weight of him, cold from the night air, smelling of sweat and leather, draped over Mulder, pushing him into the couch. As a hot mouth opened over his and his eyes squeezed shut, he had one last thought. No one else could understand, as Mulder could, the inability of a cop to turn away from someone so very wrong for him.

 

** **

_Undone_

_might take a little crime to come undone_

"Be seeing you, detectives."

That fucking cheerful laugh.

No conscience behind those eyes. No remorse. Awareness, and laughter, and godhood, untouchable, unreachable. Unstoppable.

"Might go down to New Orleans. They have some hot women down there."

Crash. Gavel. Delays. I just got so busy I forgot. So sorry.

A predator walks the streets. Because the fucking DA can't keep his fucking daytimer in order.

No longer.

A predator walks the streets.

Muzzle flash. Another.

Fog in the air. I'm breathing quickly. Stomach hurts.

It's dark out here.

Shell casings. Carefully scanning the street. Sidestepping the blood, careful not to step in it, no tracks, no spent shells to identify. No clues to give away the executioner of the predator.

"The ones who think it doesn't change them -- they're the ones that change the most."

Just rearranging a few things. Things I don't need anymore. Olivia's picture. My name plate. Everything in my desk. Anything that points to me and says, hey, look, he's murder police. He does justice.

The water's cold. Almost as cold as I am.

Gotta think.

Gotta stop thinking.

Gotta stop feeling.

Gotta think.

It's very quiet here. That's a good thing. The fish like it when it's quiet. Too many days standing in the water and pretty soon all you can hear is the fish, the water, the trees. The thoughts that won't shut the fuck up in your head.

I can see it under the water. Come on, come on, come on, you know you want it. Ready to bite. Sharp, sudden, foreign noise.

I jump.

Cell phone! Who the hell is calling me clear up here? I'm on sabbatical! "What?"

The world is as cold as the water is as cold as my skin is as cold as the air is as cold as my heart is as cold as

"Gee's been shot."

 

_like a radio tune I swear I've heard before_

"Frank." Of course. My heart is at war with my mind. My partner is back. I can give them to him. Frank will know. Later. After we find the bastard who shot Gee.

Lewis is making stupid comments. Falsone is trying to keep the peace. Gharty -- Gharty! -- is trying to act like a leader. They're stupid enough to try to keep Frank out. Don't they know? He'll find the way.

He always does.

Don't know whether to thank him or curse him for that. Just know he's the only one I trust. Him, and Gee, maybe. Maybe not, not with this. Frank catches me reacting to Ryland's name on the board. He knows me.

Maybe.

In the car. Memories. The last eight years rush over me, and the last few months disappear, a nightmare I wish I really could wake up from, then he can't have coffee. It brings the reality back, and I wince. Standing there, on the corner, I try to tell Frank how much I love him. It comes out in stumbling words of appreciation, my heart in my words. Frank, being Frank, sails right over the top of them and comes up with a theory. A theory that makes my knees shake along with my voice.

What if a cop did it. What if a law enforcement officer shot one of our own.

What if a law enforcement officer shot one of them.

Where is the line then?

We watch the tapes. Over, and over, Gee getting shot, curling down, a great bear brought low, looking surprised, then sleepy, then just not there. One spectator after another in the crowd. The faces. The hands. The body language. I tell him the women, the ones Ryland killed on the internet, they still bother me. He tells me that's good. He doesn't hear me.

He sees the puff of smoke.

A cop didn't do the shooting, of course. Not with Gee. We find him. I don't have any cuffs on me. I can't get the Miranda out. My throat hurts. I understand. Oh, not that he shot Gee. Not Gee.

But that he defended his kid. The only way he knew how to defend a child who was already dead. Tried to keep any other kid from dying that way.

Tried to defend the dead by protecting the living, by killing the living.

Frank finds the gun strapped to the side of the camera case. That's how he did it, so nobody could see. Kept right on rolling his film after shooting Gee. Cool as could be. Knew what he had to do and did it and kept right on shooting. In every sense of the word.

We turn over the shooter and the film, walk the prosecutor through it, and I try not to look at him. We sell Gharty on it, go for a walk. It was hot in there. It's cold out on the streets.

I can see my breath.

I can see Frank's heart break in his eyes.

He does not believe I meant to do that killing. He doesn't want to believe that I'd executed the predator. I know he doesn't. He can believe whatever he has to believe. I know the truth. I see it in his eyes.

I hear it in his voice, when he says he can't absolve me. We're so close to one another. I can see his breath, too, can't tell where mine is and his is and it's not mine, or his, it's ours. His skin is warm under my hand as I touch his neck, his cheek, against my forehead as it presses against his. There are tears in his eyes, in his voice, but his fine steel core is the same as it was, as I need it to be. He will take me in, he will save my life, for the moment, at least, but he won't take away the guilt. Won't settle the conflict. Will leave my heart and my head at war with one another. He takes a deep breath, lets it out. I watch him. Watch the resolve take over the regret.

Frank is my guide. I've lost my way, and he can't bring me back.

He can just take me in.

My hand doesn't shake as I change the names on the board. Ryland, in blue. Giardello, in black.

I stare at the names. Behind me, I hear noises, and I tune in, not thinking much, just idling, wondering how it will go down.

"He didn't make it. Aneurysm."

Son of a bitch.

Another corner of my foundation is chipped away as it sinks in that Gee is dead. So much for being too tough to die. I see Mike walking past. He doesn't see me. There's a rosary in his hands. I find myself hoping that his faith will do him good, give him some strength here.

Somebody needs some. Faith. And strength.

Turning, I see Frank watching me. He blinks, slowly, and turns away toward Gee's office. Always Gee's, never anybody else's, certainly not Gharty's. He's talking to Mike. He's looking at me. I know what he's saying. I know what he's telling me to do.

I turn and walk outside. By the time I get to the Waterfront, I can see through the window that they've heard the news. Some people are crying. Lewis is standing on the sidewalk, staring up at a balcony on the second floor of the hospital. His face is calm but his eyes remind me of Frank's, a little bit.

"Lewis."

He looks at me. "Coming inside?"

"Walk with me?" I counter-offer. His lip curls up in a mild sneer. "It's about the Ryland case. Got new evidence."

"Can't this wait, Bayliss?" Disgust now, and no trace of any resemblance to Frank. I shrug.

"No," I admit. The disgust melts into a glare. I swallow, and it feels like there's sandpaper lining my throat. I dig into the deepest corner of my pocket. I've been carrying it, stupid, I know, but my head wouldn't let my heart get rid of it, and my gut tells me it's the thing to do now. I'd flushed one down the toilet, but I wasn't able to flush the second one. Frank wouldn't want me to do this, but Frank is making me do it. His bullet, the one's he's taking for me, by proxy, by his shadow standing behind me. Watching me. Pulling the shell casing from my pocket, I offer it to Lewis, a bent piece of metal with a spiral signature on it. "It matches the slug in his brain."

Lewis' hand stretches out, but he's staring at me, not my hand. I lay the casing gently in his palm, and close his fingers over it. "Bayliss?" He's asking.

I nod.

"No fucking way."

I nod, again.

Lewis is shaking his head.

"Ask Frank," I suggest. He shakes his head harder. "Ryland was going to New Orleans. He said there were lots of pretty women there. He'd be able to take his pick. He wasn't going to stop." My eyes drop to his hand, clenched over the proof of my words. "He had to be stopped."

My eyes raise again, but Lewis still isn't looking at me. He's looking over my shoulder, and suddenly I can feel Frank there. "He's telling the truth, Meldrick. It's up to you, now." There's a breath, I can feel his warmth at my shoulder. "Son of a bitch." It's a benediction. Then the warmth is gone. I can hear his footsteps.

Now Lewis is looking at me as if he's never seen me before. I can only agree.

 

_can't ever keep from falling apart at the seams_

It's not happening the way I thought it was going to happen. My mind had it all mapped out. My heart repeated, over and over, that it was justice and it had to be done. That was as far as my heart had taken me, to the point of squeezing the trigger. My mind had taken it from there, gone over the scene, sanitized it, then begun the endless litany of all the reasons I had to give myself up. They'd fought, the immovable object and the irresistible force, until Frank had pulled me away from the edge and pushed me the right direction. I'd given myself up; he'd taken me in. That was as far as my mind had taken me.

I'm numb. Homicide's reeling from Gee's death; Frank's gone again; I'm waiting for the legal part of my nightmare to commence. Lewis takes me in to see Gharty -- Gharty! Gharty looks at me. Lewis looks at him. I look out the window. It doesn't matter, somehow. It's all over. Fate can take me from where Frank has left me, and wherever it takes me, I'll cope.

Gradually, I realize that something's off. The DA isn't here. Lewis isn't reading me my rights. I'm not filling out a statement. It's not quiet any more. Lewis is talking, but what he's saying isn't making any sense.

"-don't see no difference. If anything, this is cleaner than Mahoney. Nobody else talkin', no statements to worry 'bout, one dead scuzz. He already given up his badge."

I look at Lewis. What the fuck is he talking about? I'd committed murder. Why aren't they booking me?

"It's not like anybody's going to care," Gharty says hesitantly, looking at Lewis. Lewis gives him the tiniest nod. "Ryland was a scumbag. There's no physical evidence."

Lewis' fist clenches over his pocket. He refuses to look at me. I open my mouth.

"Shut the hell up, Bayliss," he growls.

"All we got is the confession of a burned-out homicide cop who hasn't exactly been stable the last year and who's been on unpaid leave for the last few months. And you gotta admit, his actions during the whole Ryland mess weren't exactly normal."

"Ain't nothin' been normal 'bout Bayliss since he seen the white light on the operating table." Lewis still isn't looking at me. I stare at his hand. He has the only piece of physical evidence I kept.

This is insane. I try to interrupt. Lewis' hand clamps over my wrist, holding me to the chair. It hurts, and that surprises me. I thought I was too numb for anything to hurt. Then dark eyes are an inch from mine, and I can feel his breath on my face.

"Don't fuckin' say one word, Bayliss. Too much goin' on here, too much too fast, and you not goin' to make it worse. It's done, man. It's over. It's done."

It is.

Gharty asks for my gun, to go with my shield. Lewis walks out of the office, over to the board, and erases Ryland's name, writing it again in red at the bottom of the board. They believe me, in that office, with Frank's words echoing. But out in the bullpen, out where anyone who cares can see, where it counts, they think I'm nuts, think I've lost it. Don't believe me, and officially never will. They've got my shield, got my gun, and got the evidence, and it's over. I'm gone, and it's over.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

I stumble a little as I walk toward the door. Lewis looks over at me. His eyes are hard, now, and they're speaking loudly. It's over. Don't say another word. Just go away.

Where?

Why?

 

_mine, immaculate dream made breath and skin_

_I've been waiting for you_

I'd been tracking him for months. The need had gotten stronger, until the risk was worth the reward. He didn't know I was there, but it didn't matter. I knew he was near, and that kept me from losing control. As long as I could focus on him, I could survive. Without him, my senses were completely haywire, and I couldn't evade capture if I spent my life in what I could only describe as an acid trip gone exceptionally wrong.

I watched him take a bullet for his partner, Pembleton. Watched the anguish on the partner's face as he held my Guide, heard the pain in his voice. Infiltrated the hospital and made certain that Tim would survive.

It was a strange year. Tim was dabbling in Eastern religions, drinking too much, playing with dating boys and girls both, not getting very far with either of them. Then something bad happened. Tim's heart rate was up, he wasn't sleeping. He attacked a lawyer on the steps of the courthouse, not something I'd usually see as 'bad' in the general scheme of things, but out of character for my Tim. Not quite as out of character as it got right after that, though.

Who'd've thought he needed to kill someone? All he had to do was ask, and I'd've been happy to do it for him. Tim's not a very good killer. Well, he's efficient, but he has an overabundance of conscience. His instincts are good, but his training is insufficient to meet these sorts of demands. I knew it wouldn't be long before he cracked. I could only wait and watch.

I hate nature. Winter in the mountains freezing my ass off in the trees while he stood for hours playing with fish, sneaking in to watch him while he slept, mentally stripping him every chance I got; it was fun, but it wasn't nearly as much fun as the real thing. He's mine, and I wanted to keep him. As close as he was to the edge I knew if I let him know I was around, the next time he put the barrel of his gun in his mouth he actually would pull the trigger.

So I got soggy and kept my distance. Not a problem. I could see every twitch he made from a mile away. When he got the call, I heard both the news and his reaction to it. Good thing I was sitting in my Jeep. He hadn't moved that fast in months.

Didn't take him long to find the killer. He's a good detective. He's also an idiot when it comes to that partner of his. Absolution? From Pembleton? From what I've seen and researched about Pembleton, black and white doesn't begin to cover it. Tim was right to blow that kid's brains out. I knew what the guy had done. Not only had he carved up women live on the Net -- so, he was a homicidal maniac, that I could understand, even if I don't get the thrill from killing without cause. No, he did something a hell of a lot worse.

He tried to destroy Tim's life.

He used Tim's web site as his launch pad, outing Tim to the whole Homicide Unit, if not the entire Baltimore PD. Which led to Tim being forced to shut down the one outlet he had for trying to make sense of who he was. That irritated me. I'd've killed him for that, if Tim had given any indication he'd wanted it.

Then, he'd walked on the murder charges, after Tim sacrificed so much to drag him to trial. By then, I admit, I was curious. I didn't think Tim would take it so far. I was proud of him. Didn't realize how much he'd take it to heart, although I should have, I suppose. Tim has more things in common with Blair than I'd like to admit. An over-active conscience is just one of them.

So when Pembleton turned him in, after Tim whined him into it, I was busily forming plans to bust my Guide out of whatever jail he ended up in before he could become Flavor of the Month for the long-timers. Sitting in my Jeep, I listened in to see how the booking was going, and if I could get any clue to where they'd be sending him.

I froze at what I heard.

They were going to cover it up.

Tim wasn't part of this. This wasn't something Tim would do. But the other one, the one in charge, Lewis? He wasn't giving Tim time to say anything. Good. Keep him from hanging himself. Good boy.

Not that this would make it any easier on Tim. That would be my job. There'd been a method to my madness. There always was. Waiting time was over. Time to step in and clean up the mess.

 

_chill_

_is it something real or the magic I'm feeling of your fingers?_

Moving by rote, he trudged through his front door, locked it behind him. Draped his overcoat on the peg of the coat rack, shrugged out of his suit jacket and placed it over the back of the kitchen chair. Tugged his tie loose and left it hanging around his neck as he flipped open the top few buttons on his shirt. His body walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer, twisted off the cap, and swallowed half the bottle before he took a breath. His mind was still back in Gee's office hearing Gharty and Lewis cover up the fact that he was a murderer.

He was slow in reacting when hands caught his shoulders and spun him around. He lifted the bottle automatically and it was plucked from his fingers and placed securely on the table behind them. Then one hand ran over his shoulder to cup the back of his head, the other slid up between his shoulder blades to cradle him close, and his mouth was efficiently taken and conquered before he could make a sound.

Brackett.

He knew the taste and the hold, his body recognizing his captor viscerally before his mind caught up. Tim was almost getting used to this sequence of events. His body did something insane, his emotions agreed completely, then his brain came in and dealt with the aftermath. It wasn't the smartest way to handle things, but lately it had become his default method of floundering through life.

Lee knew every button to push. Based on conversations Tim'd had with Blair after the first time Brackett had come to him, it made sense. Literally. Lee had an unfair advantage, and he made damned good use of it. By the time Tim had been pulled into the bedroom, undressed, and pushed down onto the bed, most of his body had been licked. Wherever Lee's tongue went, his hands followed, and his hands were magic.

Words were flowing over him, and sounds were coming from him, but he couldn't differentiate between them, and he couldn't think why it might be important that he should. Nothing was important, now, nothing made sense, so why should this? His mind was slumbering and his body was the strangest mix of blue-hot flame and white ice. Wet heat trailed over him, followed by dry flickers of flame from Lee's fingertips, and in their wake his flesh chilled, tiny goosebumps drawing the skin up, sending shivers through him.

A hand closed around him, and he moved with it, the sound rising and falling with his body. The other hand was everywhere, as were soft, demanding lips, and his arms shook against the need to hold on and the requirement to let it all flow away. He heard rain starting on the roof, and he wondered if it would turn to snow later that night. Then the random flames converged to a point of heat at his groin and he screamed as the fire raced from his toes to his knees to his chest to his fingertips and out the top of his head.

That mouth was gone, and he opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed to see Lee licking semen off his hand. It looked like a big tawny cat was lying on his chest, grooming itself. Then dark eyes met his, and Lee smiled again, and it was feral and proprietary and gentle at the same time. Lee nudged his thighs apart, and he went willingly, limp and relaxed. Touch me, he thought, go ahead. It's okay. I said yes. This time.

Lee's eyes closed as he rocked into Tim, slipping into him slowly, easing his way in. Tim watched him, and relaxed further, his mind creeping quietly back into him as Lee worked over his body. It was good, and it felt right. It all felt right. As Lee moved faster, and Tim thrust obligingly back, he knew that this was the way it was supposed to be. This was the only thing left. He could give this. This was his to give.

His hand slid under the pillow as Lee arched against him, dark eyes closing with an expression of ecstasy as he came into Tim. It was magic, and Tim felt a sympathetic surge of pleasure mirroring Lee's orgasm. Maybe this was what it meant to be a Guide? Maybe that was all he had left. He wasn't a cop anymore. Wasn't a detective. Wasn't even a successful murderer, really. Couldn't even get himself arrested. But this ... this he could do.

He smiled as he wrapped his right hand around Lee's neck and pulled Lee's head down to meet his in a kiss, as his left hand brought the .38 he kept for emergencies out from under his pillow up to Lee's temple and his left index finger pulled the trigger. Lee jerked against him, and he kissed him once more. Ignoring the fluid and matter pouring over his right hand, he kept his eyes shut and lowered the barrel six inches, resting it lightly against his skin and squeezing the trigger one

last

time.

 

 

_lost in a snow filled sky, we'll make it alright_

_to come undone_

He wasn't sure how he'd ended up in the squad room, but that's where he was. To his intense shock, a little girl skipped up to him, smiling brightly, a mass of dark curls bobbing along behind her head.

"Adena?" he whispered.

She stopped in front of him. Reached up to take his hand and tug him down to her height. He curled over, his eyes never leaving her face. "'S okay," she whispered back. "'s all okay now." Then she kissed his cheek. Letting go of his hand, she skipped around him in a circle, then ran back into the room, laughing as she went.

He walked forward slowly. There were people here he recognized, who smiled and nodded at him as he passed. He was confused, but he followed her. Something was pulling him further into the room.

Turning the corner into the break room, he stopped abruptly. Gee was sitting at a table, playing cards and drinking coffee. He looked ... healthy. Peaceful. He was smiling, laughing at a joke one of the other card players made. There was an empty chair next to Gee, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it. Tim started to say something, anything, when he felt a hand at the small of his back.

"You'll have plenty of time for card games later, babe." The warm hand slid around his waist, and a strong arm pulled him back into the bullpen, then walked him in lock-step over to the box. Once they were inside, Tim turned in the circle of arms and stared down into Lee Brackett's eyes. "Tell me you never wanted to do this." Lee grinned wickedly at him.

Tim couldn't say he hadn't. As Lee laid him across the table and dove into his pants, he couldn't help but wonder how Hell had ended up looking like Homicide. Then his brain started to melt as his body turned to fire under his Sentinel's hands, and the questions took a back seat to the need. Answers could wait.

They had time.

_we'll try to stay blind to the hope and fear outside_

_who do you need? Who do you love_

_when you come undone?_

~~~fin~~~

 

 


End file.
